


Crown and Call

by Ahab2631



Series: Grisha Remix [2]
Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alina Grew Up Using Her Powers In Secret, Also there will be swears sometimes, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beta Hero, Brief suicidal ideation, But Alina doesn't put up with nearly so much shit, Character Expansion, Characters are older, Exposition, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Hello imaginary Darkling would you like to chat, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mal still becomes a painful ass, Minor Original Character(s), New sun-bending skills, Nikolai meet your less flirtatious female counterpart, Rampant male insecurity, Remember that 'slow burn' tag from the last story? Yup still here, Seriously Every Spoiler, Seriously though he's kind of a stalker, Siege and Storm - Freeform, Slightly more than canon levels of smut, Snarky Alina, Spoilers, Strong Female Characters, What can I say - Alina is an adult and has a temper, Worldbuilding, shadow and bone - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:06:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 163,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahab2631/pseuds/Ahab2631
Summary: Corresponds to Siege and Storm within the Grisha trilogy.Sequal to Light and Steel; part two of my AU "rewrite" of the Grisha trilogy by Leigh Bardugo.  In this story, Alina was found in her twenties, and had been using her powers since childhood.From the first fic: "Basically, read this if you've been wanting to re-read the trilogy but don't want to have to go through the parts that frustrated you again. That is literally the whole reason I am doing this."





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> Respectful corrections and critiques wholeheartedly welcome. And for god's sake if there's something cringe-worthy...don't let me be "that author."
> 
> No _Six of Crows_ or _Crooked Kingdom_ spoilers in the comments, please. I (stiiiill) haven't read them yet.
> 
> Credit again to [Ignitesthestars,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ignitesthestars/pseuds/ignitesthestars) from whose fic [Good Morning Midnight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1935132/chapters/4179585) I stole some sun-bending ideas and gathered the stones to write this thing in the first place. It's a very, very good fic about what might have happened had Alina's powers been discovered by the examiners as a child.
> 
> As with the first part, I won't be italicizing the "Russian."
> 
> Please note: I go through periods now and again where, due to a cognitive condition, I just can't brain well enough to get chapters up. But don't worry, I am 100% finishing this b*tch.

The boy and the girl had once dreamed of ships, long ago, before they’d ever seen the True Sea. They were the vessels of stories, magic ships with masts hewn from sweet cedar and sails spun by maidens from threads of pure gold. Their crews were white mice who sang songs and scrubbed the decks with their pink tails.

The Verrhader was not a magic ship. It was a Kerch trader, its hold bursting with millet and molasses. It stank of unwashed bodies and the raw onions the sailors claimed would prevent scurvy. Its crew spat and swore and gambled for rum rations. The bread the boy and the girl were given spilled weevils, and their cabin was a cramped closet they were forced to share with two other passengers and a barrel of salt cod.

They didn’t mind. They grew used to the clang of bells sounding the hour, the cry of the gulls, the unintelligible gabble of Kerch. The ship was their kingdom, and the sea a vast moat that kept their enemies at bay.

The boy took to life aboard ship as easily as he took to everything else. He learned to tie knots and mend sails, and as his wounds healed, he worked the lines beside the crew. He abandoned his shoes and climbed barefoot and fearless in the rigging. The sailors marveled at the way he spotted dolphins, schools of rays, bright striped tigerfish, the way he sensed the place a whale would breach the moment before its broad, pebbled back broke the waves. They claimed they’d be rich if they just had a bit of his luck.

The girl made them nervous.

Three days out to sea, the captain asked her to remain belowdecks as much as possible. He blamed it on the crew’s superstition, claimed that they thought women aboard ship would bring ill winds. This was true, but the sailors might have welcomed a laughing, happy girl, a girl who told jokes or tried her hand at the tin whistle.

This girl stood quiet and unmoving by the rail, clutching her scarf around her neck, frozen like a figurehead carved from white wood. This girl seemed to grow more sickly every day and screamed in her sleep and woke the men dozing in the foretop.

So the girl spent her days haunting the dark belly of the ship. She counted barrels of molasses, studied the captain’s charts. At night, she slipped into the shelter of the boy’s arms as they stood together on deck, picking out constellations from the vast spill of stars: the Hunter, the Scholar, the Three Foolish Sons, the bright spokes of the Spinning Wheel, the Southern Palace with its six crooked spires.

She kept him there as long as she could, telling stories, asking questions. Because she knew when she slept, she would dream. Sometimes she dreamed of broken skiffs with black sails and decks slick with blood, of people crying out in the darkness and the sound of feeding monsters. But worse were the dreams of a pale prince who pressed his lips to her neck, who placed his hands on the collar that circled her throat and called forth her power in a blaze of bright sunlight.

When she dreamed of him, she woke shaking, the echo of her power still vibrating through her, the feeling of the light warm on her skin.

The boy held her tighter, murmured soft words to lull her to sleep.

“It’s only a nightmare,” he whispered. “The dreams will stop.”

He didn’t understand. The dreams were the only place it was safe to use her power now, and she longed for them.

 

* * * * *

  
On the day the Verrhader made land, the boy and girl stood at the rail together, watching as the coast of Novyi Zem drew closer.

They drifted into harbor through an orchard of weathered masts and bound sails. There were sloops and little junks from the rocky coasts of the Shu Han, armed warships and pleasure schooners, fat merchantmen and Fjerdan whalers. A bloated prison galley bound for the southern colonies flew the red-tipped banner that warned there were murderers aboard. As they floated by, the girl could have sworn she heard the clink of chains.

The Verrhader found its berth. The gangway was lowered. The dockworkers and crew shouted their greetings, tied off ropes, prepared the cargo.

The boy and the girl scanned the docks, searching the crowd for a flash of Heartrender crimson or Summoner blue, for the glint of sunlight off Ravkan guns.

It was time. The boy slid his hand into hers. His palm was rough and calloused from the days he’d spent working the lines. When their feet hit the planks of the quay, the ground seemed to buck and roll beneath them.

The sailors laughed. “Vaarwel, fentomen!” they cried.

The boy and girl walked forward, and took their first rolling steps in the new world.

 _Please,_ the girl prayed silently to any Saints who might be listening, _let us be safe here. Let us be home._


	2. The Tourist Trade

Two weeks we'd been in Cofton, and I was still getting lost. The town lay inland, west of the Novyi Zem coast, miles from the harbor where we’d landed. Soon we would go farther, deep into the wilds of the Zemeni frontier. Maybe then we’d begin to feel safe.

I checked the little map I’d drawn for myself and retraced my steps. Mal and I met every day after work to walk back to the boardinghouse together, but today I’d gotten completely turned around when I’d detoured to buy our dinner. The calf and collard pies were stuffed into my satchel and giving off a very peculiar smell. The shopkeeper had claimed they were a Zemeni delicacy, but I had my doubts. It didn’t much matter. Mal wasn't picky, and everything tasted like ashes to me lately.

Mal and I had come to Cofton to find work that would finance our trip west. It was the center of the jurda trade, surrounded by fields of the little orange flowers that people chewed by the bushel. The stimulant was considered a luxury in Ravka, but some of the sailors aboard the Verrhader had used it to stay awake on long watches. Zemeni men liked to tuck the dried blooms between lip and gum, and even the women carried them in embroidered pouches that dangled from their wrists. Each store window I passed advertised different brands: Brightleaf, Shade, Dhoka, the Burly. I saw a beautifully dressed girl in petticoats lean over and spit a stream of rust-colored juice right into one of the brass spittoons that sat outside every shop door. I stifled a gag. That was one Zemeni custom I didn’t think I would get used to.

With a sigh of relief, I turned onto the city’s main thoroughfare. At least now I knew where I was. Cofton still didn’t feel quite real to me. There was something raw and unfinished about it. Most of the streets were unpaved, and I always felt like the flat-roofed buildings with their flimsy wooden walls might tip over at any minute. And yet they all had glass windows. The women dressed in velvet and lace. The shop displays overflowed with sweets and baubles and all manner of finery instead of rifles, knives, and tin cookpots. Here, even the beggars wore shoes. This was what a country looked like when it wasn’t under siege.

As I passed a gin shop, I caught a flash of crimson out of the corner of my eye. Instantly I drew back, pressing myself into the shadowy space between two buildings, heart hammering, my hand already reaching for the pistol at my hip.

 _Dagger first,_ I reminded myself, sliding the blade from my sleeve. _Try not to draw attention. Pistol if you must. Power as a last resort._ Not for the first time, I missed the Fabrikator-made gloves that I’d lost in Ravka while tumbling through a river. They’d made a nice alternative to slicing someone in half with the Cut. But if I’d been spotted by a Corporalnik Heartrender, I might not have a choice in the matter.

I waited, my grip slippery on the dagger’s handle, then finally dared to peek around the wall. I saw a cart piled high with barrels. The driver had stopped to talk to a woman whose daughter danced impatiently beside her, fluttering and twirling in her dark red skirt.

Just a little girl. Not a Corporalnik in sight. I sank back against the building and took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

 _It won’t always be this way,_ I told myself. _The longer you’re free, the easier it will get._

One day I would wake from a sleep free of nightmares, walk down a street unafraid. And once we settled somewhere remote, I might be able to start using my powers again. Even if it was nothing but my web, it would be something. Until then, I kept my flimsy dagger close and wished for the sure heft of Grisha steel in my palm.

I pushed my way back into the bustling street and clutched at the scarf around my neck, drawing it tighter. It had become a nervous habit. Without the collar underneath to identify me, I was just another dirty, underfed Ravkan refugee.

I wasn’t sure what I would do when the weather turned. I couldn’t very well walk around in scarves and high-necked coats when summer came. But by then, hopefully, Mal and I would be far from crowded towns and unwanted questions. We’d be on our own for the first time since we’d fled Ravka. The thought sent warmth and a nervous flutter through me.

I crossed the street, dodging wagons and horses, still scanning the crowd surreptitiously, sure that at any moment I would see a troop of Grisha or oprichniki closing in. Or maybe it would be Shu Han mercenaries, or Fjerdan assassins, or the soldiers of the Ravkan King, or even the Darkling himself. So many people might be hunting us. Hunting me. If it weren’t for me, Mal would still be a tracker in the First Army, not a deserter running for his life. I had stopped mentioning it to him – it had become just another thing he needed to comfort me over.

A memory rose unbidden in my mind: black hair, slate eyes, the Darkling’s face exultant as he called forth my light, and victorious as he unleashed the power of the Fold. Before I’d snatched that victory away.

News was easy to come by in Novyi Zem, but none of it was good. Rumors had surfaced that the Darkling had somehow survived the battle on the Fold, that he had gone to ground to gather his forces before making another attempt on the Ravkan throne. I didn’t want to believe it was possible, but I knew better than to underestimate him. The other stories were just as disturbing: that the Fold had begun to overflow its shores, driving refugees east and west; that a cult had risen up around a Saint who could summon the sun. I didn’t want to think about it. Mal and I had a new life for now. We’d left Ravka behind.

I hurried my steps, and soon I was in the square where Mal and I met every evening. I spotted him leaning against the lip of a fountain, talking with a Zemeni friend he’d met working at the warehouse, and immediately felt myself relax.

Fed by four huge spigots, the fountain was less decorative than useful, a large basin where girls and house servants came to wash clothes. None of the washerwomen were paying much attention to the laundry, though. They were all gawking at Mal. It was hard not to. His hair had grown out of its short military cut and was starting to curl at the nape of his neck. The spray from the fountain had left his shirt damp, and it clung to skin bronzed by long days at sea, and a form honed by military service and the hard work of a sailor. He threw his head back, laughing at something his friend had said, seemingly oblivious to the sly smiles thrown his way.

I doubted he even noticed. I knew I hadn't, before I had withered myself as the price of keeping a bottle on my power. When Grisha denied their power, locked it away, they grew sickly and weak and frail. I had pointed out that people would be more likely to remember two uncommonly good-looking foreigners, and though Mal hated the idea, he couldn't deny that I was right.

When he caught sight of me, his face broke into a grin and he waved. The washerwomen turned to look and then exchanged glances of disbelief. I knew what they saw: a scrawny, underfed girl with dull skin and hair, hollow cheeks and dark circles under her eyes, fingers stained orange from packing jurda. I wasn’t eating or sleeping well, and the nightmares didn’t help. The women’s faces all said the same thing: what was a man like him doing with a girl like me?

I tried to ignore them and focus on Mal as he threw his arm around me and drew me close. “Where were you?” he asked. “I was getting worried.”

“I was waylaid by a gang of angry bears,” I murmured into his shoulder. “After meeting my secret boyfriend.”

“You got lost again?”

“Who's been telling you such ugly lies?”

“You remember Jes, right?” he said, pulling back and nodding to his friend.

“How do you go?” Jes asked in broken Ravkan, offering me his hand. His expression seemed unduly grave.

“Very well, thank you,” I replied in Zemeni. He didn’t return my polite smile, but gently patted my hand. Jes was definitely an odd one.

We chatted a short while longer, but I knew Mal could see I was getting anxious. I didn’t like to be out in the open for too long. We said our goodbyes, and before Jes left, he shot me another grim look and leaned in to whisper something to Mal.

“What did he say?” I asked as we watched him stroll away across the square.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Did you know you have pollen in your brows?” He reached out to gently brush it away.

“Maybe I wanted it there.”

“My mistake.”

As we pushed off from the fountain, one of the washerwomen leaned forward, practically spilling out of her dress.

“If you ever get tired of skin and bones,” she called to Mal, “I’ve got something to tempt you.”

I stiffened. Mal glanced over his shoulder. Slowly, he looked her up and down. “No,” he said flatly. “You don’t.”

The girl’s face flushed an ugly red as the others jeered and cackled, splashing her with water. It was hard to restrain the goofy grin pulling at the corners of my mouth.

“Thanks,” I mumbled as we crossed the square, heading toward our boardinghouse.

“For what?”

I rolled my eyes. “For defending my honor, you dullard.”

He yanked me beneath a shadowed awning. I had a moment’s panic when I thought he’d spotted trouble, but then his arms were around me and his lips were pressed to mine.

When he finally drew back, my cheeks were flushed and my legs had gone wobbly.

“That's the first time you've smiled.” A warm look spread over his face.

I blinked at him, my head a little foggy.

“And just to be clear,” he said, “I’m not really interested in defending your honor. I'd have to beat you to it, anyway.”

“Understood,” I managed, hoping I didn’t sound too ridiculously breathless, and holding back a comment about how I'd never looked like this before, either.

“Besides,” he said, “I need to steal every minute I can before we’re back at the Pit.”

The Pit was what Mal called our boardinghouse. It was crowded and filthy and afforded us no privacy at all, but it was cheap. He grinned, cocky as ever, and made to pull me back into the flow of people on the street, but I yanked him back in for another long kiss before he could. We finally pushed away from the building, hand in hand. Despite my exhaustion, my steps felt decidedly lighter. I still wasn’t used to the idea of us together, of the thought that he was actually mine, and I was his. Another flutter passed through me. On the frontier there would be no curious boarders or unwanted interruptions. My pulse gave a little jump—whether from nerves or excitement or both, I wasn’t sure.

“So what did Jes say?” I asked again, when my brain felt a bit less scrambled.

“He said I should take good care of you.”

“Smart man. That’s all?”

Mal cleared his throat. “And. . .he said he would pray to the God of Work to heal your affliction.”

“My what?”

“I may have told him that you have a goiter.”

I stumbled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I had to explain why you were always clinging to that scarf.”

I dropped my hand. I’d been doing it again without even realizing.

“So you told him I had a goiter?” I whispered incredulously.

“I had to say something. And it makes you quite a tragic figure. Pretty girl, giant growth, you know.”

I punched him hard in the arm. Well, as hard as I could.

“Ow! Hey, in some countries, goiters are considered very fashionable.”

“Do they like eunuchs in that made up place, too? Because I can arrange that.”

“So bloodthirsty!”

“I can't help it. My goiter makes me cranky.”

Mal laughed, but I noticed that he kept his hand on his pistol. The Pit was located in one of the less savory parts of Cofton, and we were carrying a lot of coin, the wages we’d saved for the start of our new life. Just a few more days, and we’d have enough to leave Cofton behind—the noise, the pollen-filled air, the constant fear. We’d be safe in a place where nobody cared what happened to Ravka, where Grisha were scarce and no one had ever heard of a Sun Summoner.

 _And no one has any use for one._ The thought soured my mood, but it had come to me more and more lately. What was I good for in this strange country? Mal could hunt, track, handle a gun. The only thing I’d ever been good at was being a Grisha. I missed summoning light, and each day I didn’t use my power, I grew more weak and sickly. Just walking beside Mal left me winded, and I struggled beneath the weight of my satchel. I was so frail and clumsy that I’d barely managed to keep my job packing jurda at one of the fieldhouses. It brought in mere pennies, but it was something, and the only way I could help. I felt like I had when we were kids: capable Mal and useless Alina. It was not a feeling I had ever missed.

I pushed the thought away. I might not be the Sun Summoner anymore, but I wasn’t that sad little girl either. I’d find a way to be useful.

The sight of our boardinghouse didn’t exactly lift my spirits. It was two stories high and in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. The sign in the window advertised hot baths and tick-free beds in five different languages. Having sampled the bathtub and one of the beds, I knew the sign to be a lie no matter how you translated it. Still, with Mal beside me, it didn’t seem so bad.

We climbed the steps of the sagging porch and entered the tavern that took up most of the lower floor of the house. It was cool and quiet after the dusty clamor of the street. At this hour, there were usually a few workers at the pockmarked tables drinking off their day’s wages, but today it was empty save for the surly-looking landlord standing behind the bar.

He was a Kerch immigrant, and I’d gotten the distinct feeling he didn’t like Ravkans. Or maybe he just thought we were thieves. We’d shown up two weeks ago, ragged and grubby, with no baggage and no way to pay for lodging except a single golden hairpin that he probably thought we’d stolen. But that hadn’t stopped him from snapping it up in exchange for a narrow bed in a room that we shared with six other boarders.

As we approached the bar, he slapped the room key on the counter and shoved it across to us without being asked. It was tied to a carved piece of chicken bone. Another charming touch.

In the stilted Kerch he’d picked up aboard the Verrhader, Mal requested a pitcher of hot water for washing.

“Extra,” the landlord grunted. He was a heavyset man with thinning hair and the orange-stained teeth that came from chewing jurda. He was sweating, I noticed. Though the day wasn’t particularly warm, beads of perspiration had broken out over his upper lip.

I glanced back at him as we headed for the staircase on the other side of the deserted tavern. He was still watching us, his arms crossed over his chest, his beady eyes narrowed. There was something about his expression that set my nerves jangling. I felt the hair on my arms prick up.

I hesitated at the base of the steps. “That guy really doesn’t like us, huh?” I said.

Mal was already headed up the stairs. “No, but he likes our money just fine. And we’ll be out of here in a few days.”

I tried to shake off my nervousness.

“Fine,” I grumbled as I followed after Mal. “But just so I’m prepared, how do you say ‘you’re an ass’ in Kerch?”

“Jer ven azel.”

“Really?”

Mal laughed. “The first thing sailors teach you is how to swear.”

The feeling of unease swept through me again. I stopped before the tavern was swallowed up by the wall of the stairwell. “Mal. . . .” I began uneasily, unsure of what I even wanted to say.

He recognized the unsettled look on my face and stilled. His eyes quickly swept the room.

I barked out a fake laugh. “Saints,” I breathed. “I forgot to buy us dinner!” His brow furrowed and his eyes darted to my satchel. “Walk me back to the market?” I gave him a sharp look.

Understanding spread behind his eyes. “Of course,” he said in an easy, indulgent voice.

We dropped the key on the counter with an assurance that we'd be right back. I felt the inkeeper's eyes on us as we left. Once we were outside and the door firmly closed, I said urgently, “we need to leave. Now.”

Mal's face went tight and he looked around us, scanning the shadows. “Why?”

“I don't know. A feeling. Everything was wrong in there, wasn't it? We've never seen that place empty at the end of the day, and the inkeeper is nervous about something. He was sweating, and he kept looking at me.”

Mal relaxed and he let out a small laugh. “Of course he was sweaty, Alina. We're practically in the desert, and the man is a hog.” He added warmly, “and why wouldn't he look at you? You're beautiful. Everyone looks at you.”

I threw him a look. “Not here, they don't. And even when they did, it wasn't like that. Something's wrong.”

“We only have three more days until we can leave. We're so close.”

“That won't matter if something happens when we go in there. What if he sent people, or what if his guards found us? Taking chances is how you get caught, rember?"

He studied me for a long minute. Then he closed his eyes briefly, sighed, and said, “Ok. Let's go.” He held his hand out for mine.

My heart soared and I took it as we began to walk quickly from the building. We had discussed our options in case something like this happened, and debated over which of them to take.

Then I saw a movement from the corner of my eye. I had just enough time to shout a warning before a man launched at me from the shadow between buildings and grabbed me in a tight hold. “She's here!” He called loudly.

I struggled against him as my heart thundered. Mal lunged forward and hit the man hard in the face. It took two more strikes before he was dazed enough to loosen his grip on me. Before I could collect myself, Mal had grabbed my hand and we were running through the street, weaving between startled people going home for the day.

I heard a thunderclap behind us, and felt my blood turn to ice. I whirled around to send light cascading back the way we'd come, shattering the darkness that was speeding toward us. People started shouting and screaming, and the street turned to chaos. We ran faster. I was already out of breath.

The familiar, cool voice called out from behind us. “I will cut these people down, Alina.”

I turned to look over my shoulder and saw with horror that he had his arm raised to use the Cut. The street was packed with people trying to get away.

I came to an abrupt halt, almost knocking Mal off balance. “Go,” I whispered urgently to him. “Get lost in the crowd, take the money and go. I'll catch up with you.” But we both knew that was probably a lie.

“Not a chance,” he whispered back almost angrily.

“Come with me back to your room, Alina," the Darkling called. "We have some catching up to do, you and I.”

I didn't move.

“Now. Or I will burn this city and everyone in it.”

I knew he meant it. My stomach plummeted even as my heart sped. I knew there wasn't an option, not really. I gave Mal's hand a squeeze and stepped away from him. He grabbed my arm. “Don't, Alina,” he hissed in a low voice.

I looked at him for a long moment and wondered if I'd ever see him again. I leaned forward and pressed my lips hard to his, then turned and walked away before the tears could start to fall.

I felt him come into step beside me and slip his hand back into mine, locking our fingers together. He gave it a squeeze, and I did the same, though part of me wanted to throttle him.

The Darkling's eyes strayed to our linked hands, and a smile curled across his lips. It made my blood run cold.

A group of men and women in normal clothing, who I assumed were Oprichniki and Heartrenders, surrounded Mal and me as we walked back to the inn. The Darkling followed behind us.

When we re-entered the dingy tavern, two men remained outside. I stopped in front of the counter and gave a long, cold look to the inkeeper. Part of me wanted to slice a hole through his counter and wall. Instead, when I was prodded in the back to keep moving, I did. “Jer ven azel,” I said loudly to him.

The second story of the boardinghouse was in considerably worse shape than the public rooms below. The carpet was faded and threadbare, and the dim hallway stank of cabbage and tobacco. The doors to the private rooms were all closed, and not a sound came from behind them as we passed. I supposed the Darkling must have had the whole place cleared out. The quiet was eerie.

The only light came from a single grimy window at the end of the hall. I looked down through the smudged glass to the carts and carriages rumbling by below as a guard opened the door in front of me. I balked. My fingers twitched as I considered whether or not I could cut them all down quickly enough for us to flee. I was sure I could, but had had no chance to practice with my new powers. Rough hands seized me, yanking my arms behind my back. I was dragged inside the room, kicking and thrashing.

“Easy now,” said the Darkling's cool voice as he passed me. “I’d hate to have to gut your friend so soon.”

Time seemed to slow. I took in the shabby, low-ceilinged room, the cracked washbasin sitting on the battered table, dust motes swirling in a slender beam of sunlight, the bright edge of the blade pressed to Mal’s throat. The man holding him wore a familiar sneer. Ivan. There were others, men and women, now all filed into the room. All wore the fitted coats and breeches of Zemeni merchants and laborers, but I recognized some of their faces from my time with the Second Army. 

Behind them, shrouded in shadow, now lounging in a rickety chair as if it were a throne, sat the Darkling.

For a moment, everything in the room was silent and still. I could hear Mal’s breathing, the shuffle of feet. I heard a man calling a hello down on the street. I couldn’t seem to stop staring at the Darkling’s hands—his long white fingers resting casually on the arms of the chair. I had the foolish thought that I’d never seen him in ordinary clothes.

Then reality crashed in on me. This was how it ended? Without even a chance to fight? A sob of pure rage and frustration, partway to a mad, desperate sort of laugh tore free from my chest.

“Take her pistol, and search her for other weapons,” the Darkling said softly. I felt the comforting weight of my firearm lifted from my hip, the dagger pulled from its sheath at my wrist. When they were done, he said, “I’m going to tell them to let you go, with the knowledge that if you so much as raise your hands, Ivan will end the tracker. Show me that you understand.”

I gave a single slow nod.

He raised a finger, and the men holding me let go. I stumbled forward and then stood frozen in the center of the room, every eye on me, with my hands balled into fists.

I could cut the Darkling in two with my power. I could crack this whole saintsforsaken building right down the middle. But not before Ivan opened Mal’s throat.

“How did you find us?” I asked. I was surprised how calm my voice sounded. But I had expected this, hadn't I? I had expected it from the moment I had fled the broken skiff in the Shadow Fold.

“You leave a very expensive trail,” he said, and lazily tossed something onto the table. It landed with a plink beside the washbasin. I recognized one of the golden pins Genya had woven into my hair so many weeks ago.

“No,” I said, feeling sick. “No, we were careful. We traded them for coin.”

“Yes, you did. You traded them for coin in a town bordering the Fold. You traded them for coin in a port town. And you traded them for coin in the nearest outpost to this place.”

The Darkling rose, and a strange trepidation crackled through the room. It was as if every Grisha had taken a breath and was holding it, waiting. I could feel the fear coming off them, and that sent a spike of alarm through me. The Darkling’s underlings had always treated him with awe and respect, but this was something new. Even Ivan looked a little pale.

The Darkling stepped into the light, and I saw a faint tracery of scars over his face. They’d been healed by a Corporalnik, but they were still visible, like the wound on my throat. So the volcra had left their mark. _Good,_ I thought with a stab of satisfaction. It was small comfort, but at least he wasn’t quite as perfect as he had been.

He paused, studying me. “How are you finding life in hiding, Alina? You don’t look well.”

“Neither do you,” I said. It wasn’t just the scars. He wore his weariness like an elegant cloak, but it was still there. Faint smudges showed beneath his eyes, and the hollows of his sharp cheekbones cut a little deeper.

“A small price to pay,” he said, his lips quirking in a half smile.

A chill snaked up my spine. For what?

He reached out, and it took everything in me not to flinch backward. But all he did was take hold of one end of my scarf. He tugged gently, and the rough wool slipped free, gliding over my neck and fluttering to the ground.

“Back to pretending to be less than you are, I see. The sham doesn’t suit you.”

Unease passed through me. Hadn’t I had a similar thought just minutes ago? “Your concern is touching,” I said. "Shame someone made it necessary."

He let his fingers trail over the collar. “It’s mine as much as yours, Alina.”

I swatted his hand away, and an anxious ripple went through the Grisha. “Then you shouldn’t have put it around my neck,” I snapped. “You seem to be confused about ownership. Like you were with me. What do you want?”

I already knew, of course. He wanted everything: Ravka, the world, the power of the Fold. Maybe even me, but to torture or something else, I didn't know. His answer didn’t matter. I just needed to keep him talking. I glanced at Mal, hoping he understood what I intended.

“I want to thank you,” the Darkling said.

That, I hadn’t expected. “Excuse me?”

“For the gift you gave me.”

My eyes flicked to the scars on his pale cheek.

“No,” he said with a small smile, “not these. But they do make a good reminder.”

“Of what?" I asked, curious despite myself. "Our pleasant outing?” 

His gaze was gray flint. “That all men can be made fools. No, Alina, the gift you’ve given me is so much greater.”

He turned away. I darted another glance at Mal, whose face held understanding.

“Unlike you,” the Darkling said, “I understand gratitude, and I wish to express it.”

He raised his hands. Darkness tumbled through the room.

“Now!” I shouted.

Mal drove his elbow into Ivan’s side. At the same moment, I threw up my hands and light blazed out, blinding the men around us. I focused my power, honing it to a scythe of pure light. I had only one goal. I wasn’t going to leave the Darkling standing. I peered into the seething blackness, trying to find my target. But something was wrong.

I’d seen the Darkling use his power countless times before. This was different. The shadows whirled and skittered around the circle of my light, spinning faster, a writhing cloud that clicked and whirred like a fog of hungry insects. I pushed against them with my power, but they twisted and wriggled, drawing ever nearer.

Mal was beside me. Somehow he’d gotten hold of Ivan’s knife. I wrapped the light around us in a burning sphere.

“Stay close,” I said. Better to take my chances and open a hole in the floor than to just stand there doing nothing. I concentrated and felt the power of the Cut vibrate through me. I raised my arm. . .and froze when something stepped out of the darkness.

 _It’s a trick,_ I thought as the thing came toward us. Unease crawled up my spine. _It's some kind of illusion. It has to be._

It was a creature wrought from shadow, its face blank and devoid of features. Its body seemed to tremble and blur, then form again: arms, legs, long hands ending in the dim suggestion of claws, a broad back crested by wings that roiled and shifted as they unfurled like a black stain. It was almost like a volcra, but its shape was more human. And it did not fear the light. It did not fear me.

 _It’s a trick,_ my panicked mind insisted. What I was seeing wasn't possible. It was a violation of everything I knew about Grisha power. We couldn’t make matter. We couldn’t create life. But the creature was coming toward us, and the Darkling’s Grisha were cringing up against the walls in very real terror. This was what had so frightened them. This was something they had seen him do before.

I pushed down my horror and refocused my power. I swung my arm, bringing it down in a shining, unforgiving arc. The light sliced through the creature. For a moment, I thought it might just keep coming. Then it wavered, glowing like a cloud lit by lightning, and blew apart into nothing. I had time for the barest surge of relief before the Darkling lifted his hand and another monster took its place, followed by another, and another.

“This is the gift you gave me,” said the Darkling. “The gift I earned on the Fold.” His face was alive with power and a kind of terrible joy. But I could see strain there, too. Whatever he was doing, it was costing him.

Mal and I backed toward the door as the creatures stalked closer. Suddenly, one of them shot forward with astonishing speed. Mal slashed out with his knife. The thing paused, wavered slightly, then grabbed hold of him and tossed him aside like a child’s doll. This was no illusion.

“Mal!” I cried.

I lashed out with the Cut and the creature burned away to nothing, but the next monster was on me before I could even raise my arm again. I surrounded myself in a flare of blinding light, but the creature didn't even hesitate. It seized me, and revulsion shuddered through my body. Its grip was like a thousand crawling insects swarming over my arms, and it was stronger than that of any human.

It lifted me off my feet, and I saw how very wrong I’d been when I'd looked at it. It did have a mouth, a yawning, twisting hole that spread open to reveal row upon row of teeth. I felt them all as the thing bit deeply into my shoulder.

The pain was like nothing I’d ever known. It echoed inside me, multiplying on itself over and over, cracking me open and scraping at the bone. From a distance, I heard Mal call my name. I heard myself scream, a sound like I had never made before.

The creature released me. I dropped to the floor in a limp heap. I was on my back, the pain still reverberating through me in endless waves. I could see the water-stained ceiling, the shadow creature looming high above, Mal’s pale face as he knelt beside me. I saw his lips form the shape of my name, but I couldn’t hear him. I was already slipping away.

The last thing I heard was the Darkling’s voice—so clear, like he was lying right next to me, his lips pressed against my ear, whispering so that only I could hear: _Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers in the comments


	3. Foolishness and Heroism

Darkness again. Something seething inside me. I look for the light, but it’s out of my reach.

“Drink.”

I open my eyes. Ivan’s scowling face comes into focus. “You do it,” he grumbles to someone.

Then Genya leans over me, more beautiful than ever, even in a bedraggled red kefta. Am I dreaming?

She presses something against my lips. “Drink, Alina.”

I try to knock the cup away, but I can’t move my hands.

My nose is pinched shut, my mouth forced open. Some kind of broth slides down my throat. I cough and sputter.

“Where am I?” I try to say.

Another voice, low and cold and pure: “Put her back under.”

 

* * * * *

  
  
I am in the pony cart, riding back from the village with Ana Kuya. Her bony elbow jabs into my rib as we jounce up the road that will take us home to Keramzin. Mal is on her other side, laughing and pointing at everything we see.

The fat little pony plods along, twitching its shaggy mane as we climb the last hill. Halfway up, we pass a man and a woman on the side of the road. He is whistling as they go, waving his walking stick in time with the music. The woman trudges along, head bent, a block of salt strapped to her back.

“Are they very poor?” I ask Ana Kuya.

“Not so poor as others.”

“Then why doesn’t he buy a donkey?”

“He doesn’t need a donkey,” says Ana Kuya. “He has a wife.”

“I’m going to marry Alina,” Mal says.

“You're going to carry the salt,” I reply.

The cart rolls past. The man doffs his cap and calls a jolly greeting.

Mal shouts back gleefully, waving and smiling, nearly bouncing from his seat.

I look back over my shoulder, craning my neck to watch the woman slogging along behind her husband. She’s just a girl, really, but her eyes are old and worn.

Ana Kuya misses nothing. “That’s what happens to peasant girls who do not have the benefit of the Duke’s kindness. That is why you must be grateful and keep him every night in your prayers.”

 

* * * * *

  
The clink of chains.

Genya’s worried face. “It isn’t safe to keep doing this to her.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Ivan snaps.

The Darkling, in black, standing in the shadows. The rhythm of the sea beneath me. The realization hits me like a blow: We’re on a ship.

_Please let me be dreaming._

Blackness takes me.

 

* * * * *

  
I’m on the road to Keramzin again, watching the pony’s bent neck as he labors up the hill. When I look back, the girl struggling beneath the weight of the salt block has my face. Baghra sits beside me in the cart, “The ox feels the yoke,” she says, “but does the bird feel the weight of its wings?”

Her eyes are black jet. _Be grateful,_ they say. Be grateful. She snaps the reins.

 

* * * * *

  
“Drink.” More broth. I try to resist it, but only leave myself coughing and choking. I fall back, let my lids drop, drifting away, too weak to struggle.

A hand on my cheek.

“Mal,” I manage to croak.   
  
The hand is withdrawn.   
  
Nothingness.

 

* * * * *

 

“Wake up.” This time, I don’t recognize the voice. “Bring her out of it.”

My lids flutter open. Am I still dreaming? A boy leans over me: ruddy hair, a broken nose. He reminds me of the too-clever fox, another of Ana Kuya’s stories, smart enough to get out of one trap, but too foolish to realize he won’t escape a second. There’s another boy standing behind him, but this one is a giant, one of the largest people I’ve ever seen. His golden eyes have the Shu tilt.

“Alina,” says the fox. How does he know my name?

The door opens, and I see another stranger’s face, a girl with short dark hair and the same golden gaze as the giant.

“They’re coming,” she says.

The fox curses. “Put her back down.” The giant comes closer. Darkness bleeds back in.

“No," I croak. "Please—”

It’s too late. The dark has me.

 

* * * * *

  
I am a girl, trudging up a hill. My boots squelch in the mud and my back aches from the weight of the salt block upon it. When I think I cannot take another step, I feel myself lifted off the ground. The salt slips from my shoulders, and I watch it shatter on the road. I float higher, higher. Below me, I can see a pony cart, the three passengers looking up at me, their mouths open in surprise. I can see my shadow pass over them, pass over the road and the barren winter fields, the black shape of a girl, borne high by her own unfurling wings.

 

* * * * * 

  
The first thing I knew was real was the rocking of the ship—the creak of the rigging, the slap of water on the hull.

When I tried to turn over, a shard of pain sliced through my shoulder. I gasped and jolted upright, my eyes flying open, heart racing, fully awake. A wave of nausea rolled through me, and I had to blink back the stars that floated across my vision. I was in a tidy ship’s cabin, lying on a narrow bunk. Daylight spilled through the sidescuttle.

Genya sat at the edge of my bed. So I hadn’t dreamed her. I tried to shake the cobwebs from my mind and was rewarded with another surge of nausea. The unpleasant smell in the air wasn’t helping to settle my stomach. I forced myself to take a long, shaky breath, holding one hand to my stomach.

Genya wore the same unique red kefta embroidered in blue that I'd seen on her before my last disastrous trip into the Fold. The garment was dirty and a bit worn, but her hair was arranged in flawless curls, and she looked more lovely than any queen. She held a tin cup to my lips.

“Drink,” she said.

“What is it?” I croaked warily.

“Just water.”

I tried to take the cup from her and realized my wrists were in irons. I lifted my hands awkwardly. I sipped, coughed, then drank greedily. The water had a flat metallic tang, but I was parched.

“Slowly,” she said, her hand smoothing the hair back from my face, “or you’ll make yourself sick.”

“How long?” I asked, glancing at Ivan, who leaned against the door watching me. “How long have I been out?”

“A little over a week,” Genya said.

“A week?”

Panic seized me. A week of Ivan slowing my heart rate to keep me unconscious.

I shoved to my feet and blood rushed to my head. I would have fallen if Genya hadn’t reached out to steady me. I willed the dizziness away, shook her off, then stumbled to the sidescuttle and peered through the foggy circle of glass. Nothing. Nothing but blue sea. No harbor. No coast. Novyi Zem was long gone. I fought the tears that rose behind my eyes and let my forehead fall to rest against the hull.

“Where’s Mal?” I asked. When no one answered, I turned around. “Where is he?” I snapped at Ivan.

“The Darkling wants to see you,” he said. “Are you strong enough to walk, or do I have to carry you?”

“I'd hate to deprive myself of your strong arms.”

“Give her a minute,” said Genya. “Let her eat, wash her face at least.”

“No. Take me to him now.”

Genya frowned.

I felt weak and woozy and sick and horrified. But I wasn’t about to lie back down on that bunk, and after a week unconscious, I needed answers more than food.

As we left the cabin, we were engulfed in a wall of stench—not the usual ship smells of bilge and fish and bodies that I remembered from our voyage aboard the Verrhader, but something far worse. I gagged and clamped my mouth shut. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t eaten.

“What is that?”

“Blood, bone, rendered blubber,” said Ivan. We were aboard a whaler. “You get used to it,” he said.

 _“You_ get used to it,” retorted Genya, wrinkling her nose.

They brought me to a hatch that led to the deck above. Ivan clambered up the ladder, and I did my best to hurry after him, eager to be out of the dark bowels of the ship and free of that rotting stench. It was hard climbing with my hands in irons, and I was weak from sleep and not using my powers. Ivan quickly lost patience. He hooked my wrists to haul me up the last few feet. I took in great gulps of cold air and blinked in the bright light. Immediately I called it to a wide, radiant halo around me, closing my eyes to soak the feeling in. I was as hungry for the well of my power as I had been for fresh air, and there was no reason to hide it now. Better to regain my strength as quickly as possible.

The ship had gone quiet and I opened my eyes. Every face was turned to me. I dimmed the light to a dull glow, indistinguishable from the brightness of the day, and tried to ignore their stares and the hushed words as we passed.

The whaler was lumbering along at full sail, driven forward by three Grisha Squallers who stood by the masts with arms raised, their blue kefta flapping around their legs.

The ship’s crew wore roughspun, and many were barefoot, the better to grip the ship’s slippery deck. _No uniforms,_ I noted. So they weren’t military, and the ship flew no colors that I could see.

The rest of the Darkling’s Grisha were easy to pick out among the crew, not just because of their brightly colored kefta, but because they stood idly at the railings, gazing out at the sea or talking while the regular sailors worked. I even saw a Fabrikator in her purple kefta propped up against a coil of rope, a book open in front of her.

As we passed by two massive cast-iron kettles set into the deck, I got a fierce whiff of the stink that had been so powerful below.

“The try-pots,” Genya said. “Where they render the oil. They haven’t been used on this voyage, but the smell never fades.”

Grisha and crewmen alike continued to stare as we walked the length of the ship. When we passed beneath the mizzenmast, I looked up and saw the dark-haired boy and girl from my dream perched high above us. They hung from the rigging like two birds of prey, watching us with matching golden eyes.

So it hadn’t been a dream at all. They’d been in my cabin.

Ivan led me to the prow of the ship, where the Darkling was waiting. He stood with his back to us, staring out over the bowsprit to the blue horizon beyond, his black kefta billowing around him like an inky banner of war.

Genya and Ivan made their bows and left us.

“Where is he?” I rasped, my throat still rusty. I attempted to clear it.

The Darkling didn’t turn, but shook his head and said, “You’re predictable, at least.”

“Happy to bore you. Where is he?”

“How do you know he isn’t dead?”

My stomach lurched. “Because I know you better than that,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“And if he were? Would you throw yourself into the sea?”

“I'd throw myself at you. I wouldn't throw myself into the sea unless I could take you with me. Where is he?”

“Look behind you.”

I whirled. Far down the stretch of the main deck, through the tangle of rope and rigging, I saw Mal. He was flanked by Corporalki guards, but his focus was trained on me. He’d been watching, waiting for me to turn. I stepped forward. The Darkling seized my arm.

“No farther,” he said.

I sagged. “Let me talk to him, please” I begged. I hated the desperation in my voice.

“Not a chance. You two have a bad habit of acting like fools and calling it heroism.”

"Maybe we wouldn't have to if you would stop trying to control me and use me to murder people."

The Darkling lifted his hand, and Mal’s guards started to lead him away. “Alina!” he yelled, and then grunted as a guard cuffed him hard across the face.

I struggled to get to him. “No, leave him alone! Mal! I-” I shouted as they dragged him, struggling, belowdecks. “Mal!”

I flinched out of the Darkling’s grip, my throat choked with rage. “If you hurt him—”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” he said. “At least not while he can be of use to me.”

“I don’t want him harmed.”

“He’s safe for now, Alina. But don’t test me. If one of you steps out of line, the other will suffer. I’ve told him the same.”

I shut my eyes, trying to push back the fury and hopelessness I felt. We were right back where we’d started. The weeks of fear, of running, hiding, of sickness and worry, of planning and scraping to get by. It had all been for nothing. I felt the anger slip out of me, replaced by a shadow of the numbness I had felt so many weeks ago as the Darkling had dragged me into the Fold.

I nodded once. Then I moved to lean against the railing across from the Darkling on the narrow prow.

Again, he shook his head. “You two make it so easy. I prick him, you bleed.”

“I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

He reached out and tapped Morozova’s collar, letting his fingers graze the skin of my throat. Even that faint touch opened the connection between us, and a rush of power vibrated through me like a bell being struck. Having my light called to after so long suppressing it... the pull in his touch felt stronger than I remembered. My eyelids fluttered closed before I could stop them.

“I understand enough,” he said softly.

I opened my eyes and jerked back. “I want to see him,” I managed. “Every day. I want to know he’s safe.”

“Of course. I’m not cruel, Alina. Just cautious.”

I barked out a harsh laugh. “Is that why you wanted to feed him to volcra in front of me? Is that why you had one of your monsters bite me?”

“That’s not why,” he said, his gaze steady. He glanced at my shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

“Not at all,” I lied. “It's like a kiss from a Saint.”

The barest hint of a smile touched his lips. “It will get better,” he said. “But the wound can never be fully healed. Not even by Grisha.”

“Those creatures—”

“The nichevo’ya.”

 _The Nothings._ I shuddered, remembering the skittering, clicking sounds they’d made, the gaping holes of their mouths. My shoulder throbbed. “What are they?”

His lips tilted. The faint tracery of scars on his face was barely visible, like the ghost of a map. One ran perilously close to his right eye. He’d almost lost it. He cupped my cheek with his hand, and when he spoke, his voice was almost tender.

“They’re just the beginning,” he whispered.

He left me standing on the foredeck, my skin still alive with the touch of his fingers, my head swimming with questions.

Before I could begin to sort through them, Ivan appeared and began yanking me back across the main deck. “Slow down,” I protested, but he just gave another jerk on my sleeve. I lost my footing and pitched forward. My knees banged painfully on the deck, and I barely had time to put up my shackled palms to break my fall. I winced as a splinter dug into my flesh.

“Move,” Ivan ordered. I struggled to my knees. He nudged me with the toe of his boot, and my knee slipped out from beneath me, sending me back down to the deck with a loud thud. “I said move.”

A curse was on my lips, but before I had a chance to start berating him, a large hand scooped me up and gently set me on my feet. When I turned, I was surprised to see the giant and the dark-haired girl.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“This is none of your concern,” Ivan said angrily.

“She’s Sturmhond’s prisoner,” replied the girl. “She should be treated accordingly.”

Sturmhond. The name was familiar. Was this his ship, then? And his crew? There’d been talk of him aboard the Verrhader. He was a Ravkan privateer and a smuggler, infamous for breaking the Fjerdan blockade and for the fortune he’d made capturing enemy ships. But he wasn’t flying the double eagle flag.

“She’s the Darkling’s prisoner,” said Ivan, “and a traitor.”

“Maybe on land,” the girl said.

Ivan gabbled something in Shu that I didn’t understand. The giant just laughed.

“You speak Shu like a tourist,” he said.

“And we don’t take orders from you in any language,” the girl added.

Ivan smirked. “Don’t you?” His hand twitched, and the girl grabbed at her chest, buckling to one knee.

I barely had the chance to call a bloom of light before the giant had a wickedly curved blade in his hand and was lunging at Ivan. Lazily, Ivan flicked his other hand out, and the giant grimaced. Still, he kept coming.

“Leave them alone, Ivan! If you think I can't hurt you just because my wrists are bound, you're a bigger idiot than I thought,” I growled. I wanted to end this, but I knew Mal would pay if I interfered.

Ivan ignored me. His hand tightened into a fist. The giant stopped in his tracks, and the sword fell from his fingers. Sweat broke out on his brow as Ivan squeezed the life from his heart.

“Let’s not get out of line, ye zho,” Ivan chided.

“No!” I cried. “Ivan, stop! You're killing him!” I yelled, panicked now. I flicked a wrist and a flash of light, blinding, burst right in Ivan's eyes and he cried out, his arms moving to protect his face. The giant immediately collapsed to the deck.

At that moment, a loud double click sounded.

Ivan froze, the rage on his face evaporating. Behind him stood a tall boy around my age, maybe a few years older, with ruddy hair and a broken nose. The too-clever fox.

He had a cocked pistol in his hand, the barrel pressed against Ivan’s neck.

“I’m a gracious host, bloodletter. But every house has rules.”

Host. So this must be Sturmhond. He looked too young to be a captain of anything.

Ivan dropped his hands.

The giant sucked in air. The girl rose to her feet, still clutching her chest. They were both breathing hard, and their eyes burned with hate.

“That’s a good fellow,” Sturmhond said to Ivan. “Now, I’ll take the prisoner back to her quarters, and you can run off and do... whatever it is you do when everyone else is working.”

Ivan scowled. “I don’t think—”

“Clearly. Why start now?”

Ivan’s face flushed in anger. “You don’t—”

Sturmhond leaned in close, the laughter gone from his voice, his easy demeanor replaced by something with a sword’s edge. “I don’t care who you are on land. On this ship, you’re nothing but ballast. Unless I put you over the side, in which case you’re shark bait. I like shark. Cooks up tough, but it makes for a little variety. Remember that the next time you have a mind to threaten anyone aboard this vessel.” He stepped back, his jolly manner restored. “Go on now, shark bait. Scurry back to your master.”

“I won’t forget this, Sturmhond,” Ivan said, voice angry.

The captain rolled his eyes. “That’s the idea.”

Ivan turned on his heel and stormed off.

Sturmhond holstered his weapon and smiled pleasantly. “Amazing how quickly a ship feels crowded, no?” He reached out and gave the giant and the girl each a pat on the shoulder. “You did well,” he said quietly.

Their attention was still on Ivan. The girl’s fists were clenched.

“Get in line,” I muttered to her. “Or better yet, just promise to let me join you.”

Her eyes flicked to me.

“I don’t want trouble,” the captain warned. “Understood?”

The two sailors exchanged a glance, then nodded grudgingly.

“Good,” said Sturmhond. “Get back to work. I’ll take her belowdecks.” They nodded again. Then, to my surprise, they each sketched a quick bow to me before they departed.

“Are they related?” I asked, watching them go, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Twins,” he said. “Tolya and Tamar.”

“And you’re Sturmhond.”

“On my good days,” he replied. He wore leather breeches, a brace of pistols at his hips, and a bright teal frock coat with gaudy gold buttons and enormous cuffs. It belonged in a ballroom or on an opera stage, not on the deck of a ship.

“That was impressive,” I said, nodding in the direction where Ivan had skulked off. “The only way I've ever gotten him to shut up is by punching him in the mouth.”

“Infinitely more satisfying, I imagine,” he said.

“Call him Happy next time you see him. It's his favorite nickname. Then when he looks like he wants to murder you where you stand, tell him I said hello.”

“I'll keep that in my back pocket.” He gestured for me to start walking.

“So what’s a pirate doing on a whaler?” I asked, moving as slowly toward the hatch as I thought I could get away with. If Sturmhond noticed, he didn't seem to care.

“Privateer,” he corrected. “I have several ships. The Darkling wanted a whaler, so I got him one.”

“You mean you stole it.”

“Acquired it.”

“You were in my cabin.”

“Many women dream of me,” he said lightly as he steered me down the deck.

“Before they've ever met you? You need-”

He held up a hand. “Don’t waste your breath, lovely.”

I felt my brow furrow. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You were about to plead your case, tell me you need my help, you can’t pay me but your heart is true, the usual thing.”

I blinked. That was exactly what I’d been about to do.

“Actually,” I replied, “I was going to say you need to tell me who your tailor is, but I can work in an impassioned plea. I find myself in the business of not letting the world end, and you-”

“Waste of breath, waste of time, waste of a fine afternoon,” he said. “I don’t like to see prisoners mistreated, but that’s as far as my interest goes.”

“You—”

He shook his head. “And I’m notoriously immune to tales of woe. So unless your story involves a talking dog, I don’t want to hear it. Does it?”

“Does it what?”

“Involve a talking dog.”

“It could, if you don't mind a very loose interpretation of the truth.”

“I expected a Saint to be more virtuous."

"Good thing I'm not a Saint, then. I can be about as straightforward as you are a privateer."

“A truly honest soul, then. How rare and admirable. However, I am still being paid to haul you across the sea by a Darkling.”

“Who wants to take over the world. Probably destroying swaths of it in the process.”

“And now we've come full circle, and I so hate to repeat myself. After you,” he said, taking me by the arm and leading me to the aft hatch.

"I could always tell the Darkling that you and the twins snuck into my room and woke me up while I was supposed to be kept unconscious."

"The twins, too? If more religious figures had minds like yours, the churches would be overflowing with parishioners. I might hesitate to throw accusations at the only people onboard who have so far proven to be advocates for your health and safety, however. But you are a free woman. Well, in a matter of speaking."

“I thought you worked for Ravka,” I said, all humor gone.

“I work for the fattest purse.”

“So you’d sell your country to the Darkling for a little gold?”

“No, for a lot of gold,” he said. “I assure you, I don’t come cheap.” He gestured to the hatch. “After you.”

With Sturmhond’s help, which I accepted only because I didn't want to fall flat on my face in front of him, I made it back down to my cabin, where two Grisha guards were waiting to lock me inside. The captain bowed and left me without another word.

I sat down on my bunk, resting my head in my hands. Sturmhond could play the fool all he wanted. He’d been in my cabin, and I wanted to know why.

When Genya brought me my dinner tray, she found me curled up on my bunk, facing the wall.

“You should eat,” she said.

“I appreciate the advice.”

“Sulking gives you wrinkles.”

“Lying gives you warts,” I said sourly. She laughed, then entered and set down the tray. She crossed to the sidescuttle and glanced at her reflection in the glass. “Maybe I should go blond,” she said. “Corporalki red clashes horribly with my hair.”

When I didn't reply, she came and balanced next to me on the narrow cot. “Did you mean what you said? Back in Kribursk?”

“Which part?” I asked flatly.

“...That you don't blame me.”

After a long moment, I sighed and sat up. “I'm not saying I forgive you, and I certainly don't trust you, but no, I don't blame you. If I had been in your position, I would have done literally anything to get out. Saints, the man only put his hands on me and I wanted to burn down his throne room.”

“The Darkling told me about that,” she said, and I was surprised by how angry she sounded.

“Yes, he was charming. Maybe the Darkling will let us have him as a punching bag before he finishes the coup. Of course that would mean I would have to cooperate, so maybe I shouldn't hold my breath on that one.”

She chuckled and studied the toes of her boots. “I missed you,” she said.

I was surprised at how much those words hurt. I’d missed her, too. And I felt like a fool for it.

“Were you ever really my friend?” I asked. “Or is your new job just to keep pretending?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“Yes. And I'd like to know exactly how stupid I was.”

“I loved being your friend, Alina. But I’m not sorry for what I did.”

I nodded. That was the part I understood. “And what the Darkling did? What he's going to do? Are you sorry for that?”

“I know you think he’s a monster, but he’s trying to do what’s right for Ravka, for all of us.”

I shoved up to my elbows. I’d lived with the knowledge of the Darkling’s lies so long that it was easy to forget how few people knew what he really was. “Genya, he created the Fold.”

“The Black Heretic—”

“He _is_ the Black Heretic,” I said. “He blamed his ancestor for the Fold, but there’s only ever been one Darkling, and everything he has done he's done for power.”

“That’s impossible. The Darkling has spent his life trying to free Ravka from the Fold.”

“Yes, that was my argument, too. But why exactly do you think I ran? What did he tell you? Because the collar the wanted to put on me, how he wanted to literally enslave me, take away my free will and my ability to control my own powers, that was hardly the worst of it. And how can you even say that after what he did to Novokribirsk?”

“I know there was... an incident.”

“An incident,” I repeated drily. “Is that what he's telling people? No, I was there. The only 'incident' was me breaking free of his hold and running. He expanded the Fold into Novokribirsk, made it swallow the entire town, to prove to the ambassadors there not only that he was willing to expand it if they fought him, but that there was no price too high, nothing he wouldn't do, anyone he would hesitate to murder to keep them in line. He killed hundreds of people, and he did it without blinking. Then he had Mal thrown over the side of the skiff to be eaten.”

“And what about the people on the skiff?” she said quietly.

I looked at her for a long moment. “There's a big difference between murdering for power and murdering to keep power out of the hands of a tyrant and a monster.”

I drew in a sharp breath and lay back. For a long moment, I studied the planks above me. I didn’t want to ask, but I knew I was going to. The question had haunted me over long weeks and miles of ocean. “Were there... were there other survivors?”

“Besides Ivan and the Darkling?”

I nodded, waiting.

“Two Inferni who helped them escape,” she said. “A few soldiers from the First Army made it back, and a Squaller named Nathalia got out, but she died of her injuries a few days later.”

I closed my eyes. How many people had been aboard that sandskiff? Thirty? Forty? I felt sick. I could hear the screams, the howls of the volcra. I could smell the gunpowder and blood. I’d sacrificed those people for Mal’s life, for my freedom, and in the end, they’d died for nothing. We were back in the Darkling’s grasp, and he was more powerful than ever. I put a hand over my stomach.

Genya laid her hand over mine. “You did what you had to, Alina.”

I let out a harsh bark of laughter and yanked my hand away. “Did that ever make it easier for you?”

“Not really, no.” She looked down at her lap, pleating and unpleating the folds of her kefta. “The Darkling freed me, Alina,” she said. “What am I supposed to do? Run back to the palace? Back to the King?” She gave a fierce shake of her head. “No. I made my choice.”

“The Darkling is also the one who put you there in the first place,” I snapped. “And kept you there for his own ends, even after the King-” I cut off with a shake of my head and took a deep breath to cool my anger. “One of the nice things about having a mind is that you can change it in the face of new information, Genya. What about the other Grisha?” I asked. “They can’t all have sided with the Darkling. How many of them stayed in Ravka?”

Genya stiffened. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about that with you.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Eat, Alina. Try to get some rest. We’ll be in the ice soon.”

The ice. Then we weren’t headed back to Ravka. We must be traveling north.

She stood up and brushed the dust off her kefta. She might joke about the color, but I knew how much it meant to her. It proved she was really a Grisha—protected, favored, a servant no more.

“Genya,” I said as she reached the door. “Two more things.”

She paused, her hand on the latch.

It seemed so unimportant, so inconsequential now. But it was something that had bothered me for a long while, and I needed to hear it from her. “The letters I wrote to Mal in Os Alta. He never got any of them, not even the one I sent from the market.”

She didn’t turn back to me, but I saw her shoulders sag.

“They were never sent,” she whispered. “The Darkling said you needed to leave your old life behind.”

It was a moment before I found my voice, despite the fact that I had all but known what had happened already. “Ah” was all I managed.

“What's the second?”

“...You look good in red, Genya.” I said softly, my voice gentle. “It suits you.”

She paused for a long moment, then closed the door behind her. I heard the bolt click home.

All those hours spent talking with Genya. Walking and laughing, reading, eating and drinking tea and trying on dresses. She’d been lying to me the whole time. The worst part about it was that the Darkling had been right: if I’d kept clinging to Mal and the memory of the love I had for him, I likely never would have mastered my power. If I hadn't thought he'd abandoned me, I never would have broken past the wall I hadn't known was there. But Genya hadn't known that. She had just followed orders, let my heart break, and stood by me while she watched it happen, knowing there was something she could do. I believed her when she said she liked being my friend. But what I now knew had really gone on between us... I didn’t know what that was, but it wasn’t friendship.

I turned onto my side, feeling the gentle roll of the ship beneath me. Was this what it was like to be rocked to sleep in a mother’s arms? I couldn’t remember. Ana Kuya used to hum sometimes, under her breath, as she went about turning down the lamps and closing up the dormitories at Keramzin for the night. That was the closest Mal and I had ever come to a lullaby.

Somewhere above, I heard a sailor shout something over the wind. The bell rang to signal the change of the watch. _We’re alive,_ I reminded myself. _We escaped from him before. We can do it again._ But it was no good, and finally, I gave in and let the tears come. Sturmhond was bought and paid for. Genya had chosen the Darkling. Mal and I were as alone as we’d always been, without friends or allies, surrounded by nothing but pitiless sea. This time, even if we escaped, there was nowhere to run.


	4. The Greed of Men

Less than a week later, I spotted the first ice floes. We were far north, where the sea darkened and ice bloomed from its depths in perilous spikes. Though it was early summer, the wind bit into our skin. In the morning, the ropes were hard with frost.

I had some form of light called to me almost constantly, and devoured every scrap of food I was brought. I still didn't sleep well, but already I felt lifetimes away from the weak, sickly girl who had been captured in Cofton. I spent hours pacing my cabin and staring out at the endless sea. Each morning, I was brought above deck, where I was given a chance to stretch my legs and see Mal from afar. Always, the Darkling stood by the railing, scanning the horizon, searching for something. Sturmhond and his crew kept their distance.

On the seventh day, we passed between two slate stone islands that I recognized from my time as a mapmaker: Jelka and Vilki, the Fork and Knife. We had entered the Bone Road, the long stretch of black water where countless ships had wrecked on the nameless islands that appeared and disappeared in its mists. On maps, it was marked by sailors’ skulls, wide-mouthed monsters, mermaids with ice-white hair and the deep black eyes of seals. Only the most experienced Fjerdan hunters came here, seeking skins and furs, chancing death to claim rich prizes. But what prize did we seek?

Sturmhond ordered the sails trimmed, and our pace slowed as we drifted through the mist. An uneasy silence blanketed the ship. I studied the whaler’s longboats, the racks of harpoons tipped in Grisha steel. It wasn’t hard to guess what they were for. The Darkling was after some kind of amplifier. I surveyed the ranks of Grisha and wondered who might be singled out for another of the Darkling’s “gifts.” But a terrible suspicion had taken root inside me.

 _It’s madness,_ I assured myself. _He wouldn’t dare attempt it, not even him._ The thought brought me little comfort. He always dared.

 

* * * * *

  
The next day, the Darkling ordered me brought to him.

“Who is it for?” I asked him immediately when Ivan deposited me by the starboard rail.

The Darkling just stared out into the waves. I considered shoving him over the side. Sure, he was hundreds of years old, but could he swim?

“Tell me you’re not planning what I think you are,” I said. “Tell me it's for some other idiot girl.”

“Someone less stubborn? Less selfish? Less hungry for the life of a mouse? Believe me,” he said, “I wish I could.”

I felt sick. “A Grisha can have only one amplifier. You told me that yourself. You'll kill me before you even get the chance to use me again.”

“Morozova’s amplifiers are different.”

I gaped at him. “There’s another like the stag?”

“They were meant to be used together, Alina. They are unique, just as we are.”

I thought of the books I’d read on Grisha theory. Every one of them had said the same thing: Grisha power was not meant to be limitless; like all other forces of nature, it had to be held in check. But every book had also said that Grisha could not create life.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want this. I want—”

“You want,” the Darkling mocked. “I want to watch your tracker die slowly with my knife in his heart. I want to let the sea swallow you both. But our fates are entwined now, Alina, and there’s nothing either of us can do about that.”

“I don't believe that.”

“It must be pleasing to think so. But the amplifiers must be brought together. If we have any hope of controlling the Fold—”

“You can’t control the Fold. It has to be destroyed.”

“Careful, Alina,” he said with a slight smile. “I’ve had the same thought about you.”

“By all means,” I said, spreading my arms in invitation.

Eyes on me, he gestured to Ivan, who was waiting a respectful distance away. “Bring me the boy.”

My heart leapt into my throat. “Wait,” I said. “You told me you wouldn’t hurt him.”

He ignored me. Like a fool, I looked around. As if anyone on this saintsforsaken ship would care about my appeals. Sturmhond stood by the wheel, watching us, his face impassive.

I snatched at the Darkling’s hand. “We had a deal. Please, I haven’t done anything. You said—”

The Darkling looked at me with cool quartz eyes, and the words died on my lips.

“Maybe you should adopt a strategy other than trying to force me to do what you want,” I snapped.

A moment later, Ivan appeared with Mal in tow and steered him over to the rail. He stood before us, squinting in the sunlight, hands bound. It was the closest we’d been in weeks. My eyes quickly swept up and down the length of him. Though he looked tired and pale, he appeared unharmed. I saw the question in his wary expression, but I had no answer, and shook my head minutely.

“All right, tracker,” the Darkling said. “Track.”

Mal glanced from the Darkling to me and back again. “Track what? We’re in the middle of the ocean.”

“Alina once told me that you could make rabbits out of rocks. I questioned the crew of the Verrhader myself, and they claim that you’re just as capable at sea. They seemed to think you could make some lucky captain very rich with your expertise.”

Mal frowned. “You want me to hunt whales?”

“No,” said the Darkling. “I want you to hunt the sea whip.”

We stared at him in shock. I almost laughed.

“You’re looking for a dragon?” Mal asked incredulously.

“The ice dragon,” said the Darkling. “Rusalye.”

Rusalye. In the stories, the sea whip was a cursed prince, forced to take the form of a sea serpent and guard the frigid waters of the Bone Road. He lured lonely maidens onto his back and carried them, laughing, over the waves, until they were too far from shore to cry for help. Then he dove down, dragging them beneath the surface to his underwater palace. The girls wasted away, for there was nothing to eat there but coral and pearls. Rusalye wept and sang his mournful song over their bodies, then returned to the surface to claim another queen. That was Morozova’s second amplifier?

“It’s a fairy tale,” Mal said, voicing my own thoughts. “A children’s story. It doesn’t actually exist.”

“There have been sightings of the sea whip in these waters for years,” said the Darkling.

“Along with mermaids and white selkies. It’s a myth.”

The Darkling arched a brow. “Like the stag?”

Mal glanced at me. I gave an infinitesimal shake of my head. Whatever the Darkling was doing, we weren’t going to help.

Mal peered out at the waves. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“For her sake, I hope that’s not true.” The Darkling pulled a slender knife from the folds of his kefta. “Because every day we don’t find the sea whip, I’ll peel away a piece of her skin. Slowly. Then Ivan will heal her, and the next day, we’ll do it all over again.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

“You won’t hurt her,” Mal said, but I could hear the fear in his voice.

“I don’t _want_ to hurt her,” said the Darkling. “I want you to do as I ask.”

“It took me months to find the stag,” Mal said desperately. “I still don’t know how we did it.”

Sturmhond stepped forward. I’d been so focused on Mal and the Darkling, I hadn't heard his approach. “I won’t have a girl tortured on my ship,” he said.

The Darkling turned his cold gaze on the privateer. “You work for me, Sturmhond. You’ll do your job or getting paid will be the least of your worries.”

An ugly ripple of disquiet passed over the ship. Sturmhond’s crew were sizing up the Grisha, and their expressions were not friendly. Genya had a hand pressed over her mouth, but she did not say a word.

“Give the tracker some time,” Sturmhond said quietly. “A week. At least a few days.”

The Darkling slid his fingers up my arm, pushing back my sleeve to reveal bare white flesh. “Shall I start with her arm?” he asked. He dropped the sleeve, then brushed his knuckles over my cheek. I flinched back. “Or with her face?” He nodded to Ivan. “Hold her.”

Ivan clasped the back of my head. The Darkling lifted the knife. I saw it glittering from the corner of my eye. I tried to cringe back, but Ivan held me in place. The blade met my cheek. I sucked in a breath and squeezed my eyes shut.

“Stop!” Mal shouted.

“No!” I cried. “Don't you dare help him!”

The Darkling waited.

“I. . .I can do it.”

“Damnit, Mal, no! There are worse things than pain!”

Mal looked at me, and I could see how desperate he was. He swallowed and said, “Tack southwest. Back the way we came.”

“No! This will-”

“Hush now, Alina,” the Darkling said quietly.

Mal looked out to the ice, the line of his mouth set hard and determined.

I knew that look. He wouldn't change his mind. I sagged where I stood, recognizing defeat.

The Darkling cocked his head to one side and studied Mal. “I think you know better than to play games with me, tracker.”

Mal gave a sharp nod. “I can do it. I can find it. Just. . .just give me time.”

The Darkling sheathed his knife. I exhaled slowly and tried to suppress a shiver.

“You have a week,” he said, turning away and disappearing into the hatch. “Bring her,” he called to Ivan.

“Mal. . . .” I began as Ivan grasped my arm.

Mal lifted his bound hands, reaching for me. His fingers grazed mine briefly, then Ivan was hauling me back toward the hatch with a yank.

I rounded on the big Heartrender and shoved him back. Or tried to. It was like trying to uproot a small mountain. “Why are you so. . . .” I gesturing vaguely at him. “Isn't it exhausting? Or were you just born with the rafter up your backside?”

His hand around my arm tightened painfully. “I'm what I need to be, traitor. The sooner you figure out how to do the same, the better off we'll all be.”

We descended into the dank belly of the ship. After a short walk, Ivan pulled me into a spacious cabin that looked like the captain’s quarters. Sturmhond must have been squeezed in with the rest of his crew. A bed was pushed into one corner, and the deeply curved aft wall was studded with a row of thick-paned windows. They shed watery light on a desk behind which the Darkling seated himself.

Ivan bowed and darted from the room, closing the door behind him.

“He can’t wait to get away from you, you know.” I said, hovering by the door. “He’s afraid of what you’ve become. They all are.”

“Do you fear me, Alina?”

“Do I seem afraid of you?” I snapped. “Or is that just what you want?”

The Darkling shrugged. “Fear is a powerful ally,” he said. “And loyal.”

“And it will betray you the moment it thinks it can.”

He was watching me in that cold, assessing way that always made me feel as if he were reading me like words on a page, his fingers moving over the text, gleaning some secret knowledge that I could only guess at. I gripped the chains of the irons around my wrists rather than fidget under the prolonged study. The cuffs chafed against my skin.

“I’d like to free you,” he said quietly.

I scoffed. “Free me, skin me. So many options. I don't envy you.” I could still feel the press of his knife at my cheek.

He sighed. “It was a threat, Alina. It accomplished what it needed to.”

“Oh, so you wouldn't have done it, then? You wouldn't have carved a piece off of me? You won't do it if he fails to find a second mythical creature within the week?”

“I didn’t say that.” His voice was pleasant and matter-of-fact, as always. He might have been threatening to flay me or ordering his dinner.

In the dim light, I could just make out the fine traces of his scars. I knew I should stay quiet, force him to speak first, but my curiosity was too great.

“. . .How did you survive?” I asked quietly.

He ran his hand over the sharp line of his jaw. “It seems the volcra didn't care for the taste of my flesh,” he said, almost idly. “Have you ever noticed that they do not feed on each other?”

I suppressed a shudder. They were his creations, just like the thing that had buried its teeth in my shoulder. I rolled it absently. The skin there still pulsed. “Like calls to like. Perhaps they're not inclined to eat their creator.”

He smiled, tight and bitter. “It’s not an experience I’d care to repeat. I’ve had my fill of the volcra’s mercy. And yours.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have been such a good teacher, then.” I crossed the room, coming to stand before the desk. “Why give me a second amplifier? I fought you. I ran from you and defied you. I'm the only person in the world who can destroy the very thing you want to use to bring it to heel. I tried to kill you.”

“And failed.”

I shook my head. “Why make me stronger? It hardly seems like it's in your best interests.”

Again, he shrugged. “Without Morozova’s amplifiers, Ravka is lost. You were meant to have them, just as I was meant to rule. It can be no other way.”

“That adds up nicely in your favor. How convenient.”

He leaned back and folded his arms. “You have been anything but convenient, Alina.”

“Then at least I've done one thing right in my life. You know this will kill me. All the books say the same thing—”

“Not all the books.”

I wanted to scream in frustration. “Baghra warned me that you were arrogant, blinded by ambition. Apparently I wasn't a good student.”

“Did she now?” His voice was ice. “And what other treason did she whisper in your ear?”

“That she loved you,” I snapped. “That you were bright and brilliant, and that what you've become was her fault. That you're too hungry for power, that you ignore the costs. That she'd do anything to save you. That's why she told me to run, you know. It didn't have anything to do with helping me, she could care less about that. But you, she believed you could be redeemed, so long as you didn't step further over the line than you already have. . . .I think she would have done anything to keep that from happening.”

He looked away then, but not before I saw the flash of pain on his face. What had he done to her? And what had it cost him?

“Redemption,” he murmured. “Salvation. Penance. My mother’s quaint ideas. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention.” He reached into the desk and drew out a slender red volume. As he held it up, light glinted off the gold lettering on its cover: _Istorii Sankt’ya._ “Do you know what this is?”

I frowned. “It-” I began, but then I caught sight of the book and my eyes widened. _The Lives of Saints._

“It’s a children’s book,” I said. “The Apparat gave it to me. I buried it in a drawer in my room.”

“Have you read it?”

“No,” I admitted, suddenly wishing I had. “I didn't want anything to do with it.” The Darkling was watching me too closely. What could be so important about an old collection of religious drawings?

“Superstition,” he said glancing down at the cover. “Peasant propaganda. Or so I thought. Morozova was a strange man. He was a bit like you, drawn to the ordinary and the weak.”

I bristled. “Malyen isn’t weak. Maybe Morozova and I just know something you don't. ”

“He’s gifted, I grant you, but no Grisha. He can never be your equal.”

“He is more than my equal,” I spat.

The Darkling shook his head. If I hadn’t known better, I might have mistaken the look on his face for pity. “You think you’ve found a family with him. You think you’ve found a future. But you will grow powerful, and he will grow old. He will live his short otkazat’sya life, and you will watch him die.”

I said nothing, sorrow washing through me at the truth of his words.

“You knew.” He said.

“The more powerful a Grisha is, the longer they live,” I replied, all the while feeling my insides knot. I knew, but I had never said it out loud before now. I had certainly never told Mal. “You told me that. You and Baghra are both just to the right side of a thousand, and she told me that with the collar, I'd be the most powerful Grisha who ever lived. More powerful than either of you. So yes, I know. I have a very, very long life ahead of me. Mal's years will be nothing next to mine. I'm not going to drop him now just to avoid pain later. I'd rather have what time with him I can. But as hard as all of that is, as painful as I know it will be, it did help me figure something out.”

He waited.

“You're impatient.”

“I waited hundreds of years for you, Alina. Countless lifetimes. I'm nothing if not patient.”

“You waited because you didn't have a choice. But once I was here. . . . You do realize that if you had waited sixty, seventy years at most, I could have had my life with Mal, he'd be dead and buried, and there would have been nothing standing in your way? You could have spent all that time earning my trust, trying to win me over to your way of thinking. Instead, you chose to drag me, clawing and kicking, and fight for every inch.”

“You speak so casually of his death. But your trust is hardly required.”

My gut twisted. If Mal was here, he would know. I was flippant about it because it mattered too much.

“Maybe you don't need it," I said. "But it would have made everything infinitely easier. And part of you wants it.”

He studied me silently. “I could save us both the trouble and kill him the moment he tracks down the sea whip.”

"As though you weren't planning on doing that anyway." I smiled icily, ignoring the sick turn of my stomach. “See? Impatient.”

“Ravka won't wait. Our country has been suffering far too long.”

“It's suffering because of you,” I hissed. "Always because of you. Because you grasp for things you don't understand!"

“Because I put my trust in a girl who cannot stand the thought of her own potential.” He rose and rounded the desk. Despite myself, I took a step back, bumping into the chair behind me.

“You can't possibly believe that's what this has been about,” I said.

“I know what you feel when you’re with the tracker,” he said.

“No you don't. You couldn't begin to know.”

He gave a dismissive wave. “No, not the absurd pining you’ve yet to outgrow.”

“Should I pine for you instead?” I nearly spat.

He ignored that. “I know the truth in your heart. The loneliness. The growing knowledge of your own difference.” He leaned in closer. “The ache of it.”

I tried to hide the shock of recognition that went through me, but I couldn't cover the hitch in my breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, but the words sounded false even to my ears.

“It will never fade, Alina. It will only grow worse, no matter how many scarves you hide behind or what lies you tell, no matter how far or how fast you run.”

“Stop it,” I whispered, my voice unsteady. I tried to turn away, but he reached out and took hold of my chin, forcing me to look at him. He was so close I could feel his breath.

“There are no others like us, Alina,” he whispered. “And there never will be.”

“Baghra is like you.”

He canted his head. “Not so much as you might think.”

“You and I were born. Others will be, too.”

“Will you wait for them? Six hundred, eight hundred, a thousand years? More? Do you know what eternity feels like? Will you watch everyone you know wither and die, century after century, disintegrating in the face of time until not even dust is left, while only you go on, unchanged and unbowed? The only thing that will come for you is the knowledge of what it means to be the only one of your kind. And with each passing century, that knowledge will bury itself in you, burrowing into every piece, every bone, until you have nothing else left to cling to.”

I lurched away from him, knocking the chair over, nearly losing my balance. I looked at him in shocked horror, then turned and pounded on the door with my iron-bound fists, calling for Ivan as the Darkling watched. The Heartrender didn't come until he gave the order.

Dimly, I registered Ivan’s hand at my back, the stench of the corridor, a sailor letting us pass, then the quiet of my narrow cabin, the door locking behind me, the bunk, the scratch of rough fabric as I pressed my face into the covers, trembling, trying to drive the Darkling’s words from my head. Mal’s death. The cold reality of the long life before me. The pain of otherness that would never ease, that I had so hoped would wash away over time. Each fear sank into me, a barbed talon burrowing deep into my heart.

I knew he was a practiced liar. He could play on any human failing, pretend any emotion. It would be so much easier for him if I believed that he was the only person who would ever be able to understand me, my only protection against eternity. But I couldn’t deny what I’d felt in Novyi Zem or the truth of what the Darkling had shown me: my own sadness, my own longing, reflected back to me in his bleak gray eyes.

 

* * * * *

  
The mood had changed aboard the whaler. The crew had grown restless and watchful, the slight to their captain still fresh in their minds. The Grisha muttered amongst themselves, their nerves worn thin by our slow progress through the waters of the Bone Road.

Each day, the Darkling had me brought above deck to stand beside him at the prow. Mal was kept well guarded at the other end of the ship, and my eyes never left him. Sometimes, I heard him call out bearings to Sturmhond or saw him gesture to what looked like deep scratches just above the waterline on the large ice shelves we passed.

I peered at the rough grooves. They might be claw marks. They might be nothing. The crewmen seemed skeptical, and the Grisha were outright contemptuous. I knew that if the sea whip existed and Mal wanted to find it, he would. I would scream at him for it until I was hoarse, if only we both managed to live long enough.

At dusk, when another day had come and gone, the Darkling would parade me across the deck and down through the hatch directly in front of Mal. We weren’t permitted to speak. I tried to hold his gaze, to give him a smile, to tell him silently that I was all right, but I could see his fury and desperation growing, and I was powerless to reassure him.

Once, when the ship pitched sharply and I stumbled by the hatch, the Darkling caught me up against himself. He might have let me go, but he lingered, and before I could pull away, he let his hand graze the small of my back.

Mal surged forward, and it was only the grip of his guards that kept him from charging the Darkling.

“Three more days, tracker,” he said, his eyes never leaving me.

“Leave her alone,” Mal snarled.

“I’ve kept my end of the bargain. She’s still unharmed. But perhaps that isn’t what you fear?”

Mal looked frayed to the point of snapping. His face was pale, his mouth a taut line, the muscles of his forearms knotted as he strained against his bonds. I couldn’t bear it.

“I’m fine,” I said softly, risking the Darkling’s reprisal. “He won't touch me. He can’t hurt me.” It was a lie, but it felt good on my lips. I only prayed the Darkling wouldn't think of it as a challenge.

He looked from me to Mal, and I glimpsed that bleak, yawning fissure within him. “Don’t worry, tracker. You’ll know when our deal is up.” He shoved me belowdecks, but not before I heard his parting words to Mal: “I’ll be certain you hear it when I make her scream.”

 

* * * * *

  
The week wore on, and on the sixth day, Genya woke me early. As I gathered my wits, I realized it was barely dawn. Fear sliced through me. Something must be wrong.

But Genya was beaming.

“He found something!” she crowed, bouncing on the soles of her feet, practically dancing as she helped me from the bunk. “The tracker says we’re close!”

“The tracker's name is Mal,” I said, my tone flinty. I pulled away from her, and ignored her stricken look.

I wondered if it could be true.

We emerged into the dim gray light of early morning. The deck was crowded with Grisha gazing out at the water while the Squallers worked the winds, and Sturmhond’s crew managed the sails above.

The mist was heavier than the day before. It clung thick against the water and crawled in damp tendrils over the ship’s hull. The silence was broken only by Mal’s directions and the orders Sturmhond called.

When we entered a wide, open stretch of sea, Mal turned to the Darkling and said, “I think we’re close.”

“You think?”

Mal gave a single nod.

The Darkling considered. If Mal was stalling, his efforts were doomed to be short-lived, and the price would be high.

After what felt like an eternity, the Darkling nodded to Sturmhond.

“Trim the sails,” commanded the privateer, and the topmen moved to obey.

Ivan tapped the Darkling’s shoulder and gestured to the southern horizon. “A ship, moi soverenyi.”

I squinted at the tiny smudge.

“Are they flying colors?” the Darkling asked Sturmhond.

“Probably fishermen,” Sturmhond said. “But we’ll keep an eye on her just in case.” He signaled to one of his crewmen, who went scurrying up the main royal with a long glass in hand.

The longboats were prepared and, in minutes, they were being lowered over the starboard side, loaded with Sturmhond’s men and bristling with harpoons. The Darkling’s Grisha crowded by the rail to view the boats’ progress. The mist seemed to magnify the steady pounding of the oars against the waves.

I took a step toward Mal. Everyone’s attention was focused on the men in the water. Only Genya was watching me. She hesitated, then deliberately turned and joined the others at the railing.

Mal and I faced forward, but we were close enough that our shoulders touched. I leaned into him as much as I dared.

“Tell me you’re all right,” he murmured, his voice raw.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “A lot better than you are, I'm willing to bet,” I said. “Is it out there?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. There were times when I was tracking the stag that I thought we were close and. . . Alina, if I’m wrong—”

I turned then, not caring who saw us or what punishment I might receive. The mist was rising off the water now, creeping along the deck. I looked up at him, taking in every detail of his face: the bright blue of his irises, the curve of his lips, the scar that ran the length of his jaw. Behind him, I glimpsed Tamar scampering up the rigging, a lantern in her hands. “If you're wrong, I'll get cut, and I'll get healed. It will hurt. I'll live, and you and I will find a way out of this, like we always do. None of this is your fault, Mal. None of it. It's _his._ ”

He lowered his head, setting his forehead against mine. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

We both knew he was powerless to stop it, but the truth of that was too painful, so I just whispered, “I know.”

“You’re humoring me,” he said with the hint of a grin.

“You're very sensitive. You require a lot of coddling. I resigned myself to that when we were children.”

He pressed his lips to the top of my head. “We _will_ find a way out of this, Alina. We always do.” He echoed my words back to me.

I rested my ironbound hands against his chest and closed my eyes. We were alone on an icy sea, prisoners of a man who could literally make monsters, and yet somehow I believed. I leaned into him, and for the first time in days, I let myself hope.

A cry rang out: “Two points off the starboard bow!”

As one, our heads turned, and I stilled. Something was moving in the mist, a shimmering, undulating white shape.

“Saints,” Mal breathed.

“No,” I whispered.

At that moment, the creature’s back breached the waves, its enormous body cutting through the water in a sinuous arch, rainbows sparking off the iridescent scales on its back.

Rusalye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story spoilers in the comments


	5. Hounds

Rusalye was a folk story, a fairy tale, a creature of dreams that lived on the edges of maps. But there could be no doubt. The ice dragon was real, and Mal had found it, just as he had found the stag. It felt wrong, like everything was happening too quickly, as if we were rushing toward something we didn’t understand.

A shout from the longboats drew my attention. A man on the boat nearest the sea whip stood up, a harpoon in his hand, taking aim. But the dragon’s white tail lashed through the sea, split the waves, and came down with a slap, sending a rolling wall of water up against the boat’s hull. The man with the harpoon sat down hard as the longboat tipped precariously, then righted itself at the last moment.

 _Good. Fight them,_ I urged, pled.

Then the other boat let fly their harpoons. The first went wide and splashed harmlessly in the water. The second lodged in the sea whip’s hide.

It bucked, tail whipping back and forth, then reared up like a snake, hurling its body out of the water. For a moment, it hung suspended in the air: translucent winglike fins, gleaming scales, and wrathful red eyes. Beads of water flew from its mane and its massive jaws opened, revealing a pink tongue and rows of gleaming teeth. It came down on the nearest boat with a loud crash of splintering wood. The slender craft split in two, and men poured into the sea. The dragon’s maw snapped closed over a sailors ’s body and he vanished, screaming, beneath the waves. With furious strokes, the rest of the crewmen swam through the bloodstained water, making for the remaining longboat, where they were hauled over the side.

I glanced back up to the whaler’s rigging. The tops of the masts were shrouded in mist now, but I could still make out the light of Tamar’s lantern burning steadily atop the main royal.

Another harpoon found its target and the sea whip began to sing, a sound more lovely than anything I’d ever heard, a choir of voices lifted in a plaintive, wordless song. _No,_ I realized, feeling myself go cold. _Not a song._ The sea whip was crying out, writhing and rolling in the waves as the longboats gave chase, struggling to shake the hooked tips of the harpoons free. _Fight,_ I plead silently. _Once he has you, he will never let you go._

But I could already see the dragon slowing through the mist, its movements growing sluggish as its cries wavered, mournful now, their music bleak and fading.

Part of me wished the Darkling would just end it. Why didn’t he? Why not use the Cut on the sea whip and bind me to him as he had done with the stag?

“Nets!” shouted Sturmhond. But the mist had grown so thick that I couldn’t quite tell where his voice was coming from. I heard a series of thunks from somewhere near the starboard rail.

“Clear the mist,” ordered the Darkling. “We’re losing the longboat.”

I heard the Grisha calling to one another and then felt the billow of Squaller winds tugging at the hem of my coat.

The mist lifted, and my jaw dropped. The Darkling and his Grisha still stood on the starboard side, attention focused on the longboat that now seemed to be rowing away from the whaler. But on the port side, another ship had appeared as if from nowhere, a sleek schooner with gleaming masts and colors flying: a red dog on a teal field—and below it, in pale blue and gold, the Ravkan double eagle.

I heard another series of thunks and saw steel claws studding the whaler’s portside rail. _Grappling hooks,_ I realized.

And then everything seemed to happen at once. A deep howl went up from somewhere, like a wolf baying at the moon. Men swarmed over the rail onto the whaler’s deck, pistols strapped to their chests, cutlasses in their hands, yowling and barking like a pack of wild dogs. I saw the Darkling turn, confusion and rage on his face.

“What the hell is going on?” Mal said, stepping in front of me as we edged toward the meager protection of the mizzenmast. I wrapped invisibility around us both.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Something very good or something very, very bad. Come here.”

We stood back-to-back, my hands still trapped in irons, his still bound, the ropes too thin for me to risk trying to burn through. We were powerless to defend ourselves as the deck erupted into fighting. Pistol shots rang out. The air came alive with Inferni fire. “To me, hounds!” Sturmhond shouted, and plunged into the action, a saber in his hands.

Barking, yipping, snarling men were descending on the Darkling’s Grisha from all sides—not just from the railing of the schooner but from the rigging of the whaler as well. Sturmhond’s men. Sturmhond was turning against the Darkling.

The privateer had clearly lost his mind. Yes, the Grisha were outnumbered, but numbers didn’t matter in a fight with the Darkling.

“Look!” Mal shouted.

Down in the water, the men in the remaining longboat had the struggling sea whip in tow. They had raised a sail, and a brisk wind was driving them, not toward the whaler but directly toward the schooner instead. The stiff breeze that carried them seemed to come from nowhere. I looked closer. A crewman was standing in the longboat, arms raised. There was no mistaking it: Sturmhond had a Squaller working for him.

“Where is she?” a woman's voice said from nearby. I looked around the mizzenmast and saw Tamar and her massive brother.

Tolya shook his head.

"She didn't just vanish! Split up. If we don't get her now, this will all be for nothing."

Mal and I exchanged glances. Whatever they wanted, could it be worse than staying on the Darkling's ship as his prisoners? I arched a brow at Mal. He hesitated, then gave me a crisp nod. I let us come into view and whistled to get the twin's attention. Matching grins spread across their faces. Then they lunged.

Before I had time to react, Tolya's arm seized me around the waist and I was lifted off my feet. The world seemed to upend itself, and I shrieked as I was thrown over his huge shoulder. “Sorry!” he rumbled.

I lifted my head, struggling against the arm that held me like a steel band, and saw Tamar rushing toward Mal, a knife gleaming in her hands. “No!” I screamed. A flash of light exploded between them, blinding Tamar. Tolya whipped around, nearly making me dizzy.

“We're here to help!” Tolya barked. “Let us!”

I gritted my teeth, but let the light die. Tamar was dazed, but recovered with impressive speed. She darted forward and sliced through Mal's bonds. “Go!” she shouted, tossing him the knife and drawing a sword from the scabbard at her hip.

Tolya clutched me tighter as he sprinted over the deck. Tamar and Mal were close behind.

“Would you put me down?” I yelled, my head jouncing against the giant’s back.

“Just run!” Tamar replied, slashing at a Corporalnik who threw himself into her path.

“I can’t! Your idiot brother has me slung over his shoulder like a ham!”

“Do you want to be rescued or not?”

“I-”

“Hold tight,” Tolya said. “We’re going over.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, chanting a chorus of “no no no no no” under my breath, preparing to tumble into the icy water. But Tolya didn't get more than a few steps before he gave a sudden grunt and fell to one knee, losing his grip on me. I toppled to the deck and rolled clumsily onto my side. When I looked up, I saw Ivan and a blue-robed Inferni standing over us.

Ivan’s hand was outstretched. He was crushing Tolya’s heart, and this time, Sturmhond wasn’t there to stop him.

I threw a hand out and set the hem of his sleeve on fire. I knew he wouldn't heed the warning, but hopefully it would buy us enough time. I dearly did not want to be responsible for taking any more lives.

Ivan recoiled, and all his attention went to extinguishing his sleeve.

Tolya pushed up from his knee as Ivan dropped to the deck to smother the flame. But as he did, the Heartrender threw a hand out, clenching it into a fist. Tolya's hand went to his chest and he dropped down again, clearly fighting to stay in control.

“Ivan, stop! I don't want to hurt you!”

The Inferni had advanced on Tamar and Mal, flint in hand, arm already moving in an arc of flame. _No,_ I thought. _Not again, not before we even get a chance._ But in the next moment, the Inferni stopped and gasped. His flames died on the air.

“What are you waiting for?” Ivan snarled at the Inferni, climbing back to his feet.

The man's only response was a choked hiss. His eyes bulged. He clawed at his throat.

Tamar held her sword in her right hand, but her left fist was clenched.

I flashed light in Ivan's face, but it wasn't enough to shake his concentration.

“Good trick,” Tamar said to the paralyzed Inferni, swatting away his flint. “I know a good trick, too.” She raised her blade, and as the Inferni stood helpless, desperate for air, she ran him through with one vicious thrust. “No!” I cried.

The Inferni crumpled to the deck. Ivan stared in confusion at Tamar standing over the lifeless body, her sword dripping blood. His concentration must have wavered, because in that moment, Tolya came up from his knees with a terrifying roar.

Ivan clenched his fist, refocusing his efforts. Tolya grimaced, but he did not fall. Then the giant’s hand shot out, and Ivan’s face spasmed in pain and bewilderment.

I looked from Tolya to Tamar, realization dawning. They were Grisha. They were Heartrenders.

“Do you like that, little man?” Tolya asked as he stalked toward Ivan. Desperately, Ivan cast out another hand. He was shaking, and I could see he was struggling for breath.

I shook my head.

Tolya bobbled slightly but kept coming. “Now we learn who has the stronger heart,” he growled.

“No,” I said weakly.

He strode slowly forward, like he was walking against a hard wind, his face beaded with sweat, his teeth bared in feral glee. I wondered if he and Ivan would both just fall down dead.

Then the fingers of Tolya’s outstretched hand curled into a fist. Ivan convulsed. His eyes rolled up in his head. A bubble of blood blossomed and burst on his lips. “No!" I cried.  "Tolya _stop!”_

To my shock, the big man released his hold immediately, though it was obviously the last thing he wanted to do.

I was only dimly aware of the chaos raging around me. Tamar was struggling with a Squaller. Two other Grisha had already leapt onto Tolya. I heard a gunshot and realized Mal had gotten hold of a pistol. All I could see was Ivan’s body, crumpled and looking oddly small, and the confusion churning in my gut over why Tolya had listened to me overrode everything else.

Genya stood gazing down at Ivan, her hands over her mouth. I had no idea if he was still alive.

I wanted to say something.  I had no idea what.

“Stop them!” The shout came from across the deck. I turned and saw the Darkling grappling with an armed sailor.

Genya was shaking. She reached into the pocket of her kefta and drew out a pistol. Tolya lunged toward her.

“No!” I growled, stepping between them.

The heavy pistol trembled in her hand.

“Genya,” I said quietly, “are you really going to shoot me?” She looked around wildly, unsure of where to aim. I laid a hand on her sleeve. She flinched and turned the barrel on me.

A crack like thunder rent the air, and I knew the Darkling had gotten free. I looked back and saw a wave of darkness tumbling toward us. But in the next instant, a shot rang out. The swell of darkness blew away to nothing, and I saw the Darkling clutching his arm, his face contorted in fury and pain. In disbelief, I realized he’d been shot.

Sturmhond was racing toward us, pistols in hand. “Run!” he shouted.

“Come on, Alina!” Mal cried, reaching for my arm.

I twisted away and burned the pistol from Genya's hold, moving toward her. It clattered to the deck and left her clutching her hand to her her chest. “Come with us," I begged. "You don't have to stay here, you don't have to stay with him,” I said desperately. “Whatever you owed him you more than paid for.”

Tears spilled over her cheeks.

“I can’t,” she sobbed brokenly.

“You can!”

She curled in on herself, still holding her scalded hand. “Go, Alina,” she said miserably. “Just go.”

In the next instant, Tolya had tossed me over his shoulder again. “No!” I yelled. “Stop, put me down! Genya!”  I struggled futilely against his massive arm.

But no one paid me any mind. I called the light to turn my skin to fire just as Tolya took a running leap and vaulted over the railing, and suddenly letting go of me was the last thing I wanted him to do. The wind pulled a shriek from my throat as we plummeted toward the icy water, and I braced for the impact. Instead, we were scooped up by what could only have been a Squaller wind and deposited on the attacking schooner’s deck with a bone-jarring thud. Tamar and Mal followed, with Sturmhond close behind.

“Give the signal,” Sturmhond shouted, springing to his feet.

A piercing whistle blew.

“Privyet,” he called to a crewman I didn’t recognize, “how many do we have?”

“Eight men down,” replied Privyet. “Four remaining on the whaler. Cargo on its way up.”

“Saints,” Sturmhond swore. He looked back to the whaler, struggling with himself. “Musketeers!” he shouted to the men on the schooner’s maintop. “Lend them cover!”

The musketeers began firing their rifles down onto the deck of the whaler. Tolya tossed Mal a rifle, then slung another over his back. He leapt into the rigging and began to climb. Tamar drew a pistol from her hip. I was still sprawled on the deck in an undignified tangle, my hands held useless in irons.

“Sea whip is secured, kapitan!” shouted Privyet.

Two more of Sturmhond’s men hurdled over the whaler’s railing and flew through the air, arms pinwheeling wildly, to crash in a heap on the schooner’s deck. One was bleeding badly from a wound to his arm.

Then it came again, the boom of thunder.

“He’s up!” called Tamar.

Blackness tumbled toward us, engulfing the schooner, blotting out everything in its path.

“Someone get these chains off!" I shouted urgently.

Sturmhond threw Tamar the keys and shouted, “Do it!”

Tamar reached for my wrists, fumbling with the key as darkness rolled over us.

We were blind. I heard someone scream. Then the lock clicked free. The irons fell from my wrists and hit the deck with a dull clang.

My hands flew up, and light blazed through the dark, shattering the blackness. I pushed it toward the whaler and grew it into a blinding wall, making it impossible for the Darkling or his people to do anything but fire wildly. A cheer went up from Sturmhond’s crew, but it withered on their lips as another sound filled the air—a grating shriek, piercing in its wrongness, the creak of a door swinging open, a door that should have remained forever shut. The wound in my shoulder gave a sharp throb and I smothered a noise of pain in my throat. Nichevo’ya.

I dropped my wall - it would do nothing against the creatures - and turned to Sturmhond. “You have to get us out of here!” I cried, nearly frantic. “Now!”

He hesitated, battling himself. Two of his men were still aboard the whaler. His expression hardened. “Topmen make sail!” he shouted. “Squallers due east!”

I saw a row of sailors standing by the masts raise their arms and heard a _whump_ as the canvas above us swelled with a hard-driving wind. Just how many Grisha did the privateer have in his crew?

But the Darkling’s Squallers had arranged themselves on the whaler’s deck and were sending their own winds to buffet us, pulling us back in their direction. The schooner rocked unsteadily. I tried to blind them, but they were too far away, there were too many of them, and I was bracing myself for the Nichevo'ya that I knew were coming.

“Portside guns!” roared Sturmhond. “Rolling broadside. On my signal!”

I heard two shrill whistle blasts. A deafening boom shook the ship, then another and another, as the schooner’s guns opened up a gaping hole in the whaler’s hull. A panicked shout went up from the Darkling’s ship. Sturmhond’s Squallers seized the advantage, and the schooner surged free.

As the smoke from the cannons cleared, I saw a figure in black, hardly more than a blur at this distance, step up to the railing of the disabled whaler. Another wave of darkness rushed toward us, but this one was different. It writhed over the water as if it were clawing its way forward, and with it came the eerie clicking of a thousand angry insects.

The darkness frothed and foamed, like a wave breaking over a boulder, and began to separate itself into shapes. I began hurling blades of light into it, but only a handful of creatures were cut. It was like trying to slice through a cloud, most of them still unformed. Beside me, Mal muttered a prayer and lifted his rifle to his shoulder. The nichevo'ya finished taking shape and came on in a moaning horde of black teeth and claws.

Sturmhond’s crew opened fire, and so did I.

The nichevo’ya reached the masts of the schooner, whirling around the sails, plucking sailors from the rigging like fruit. I kept my focus on the oncoming wave, hoping the riflemen could pick off ones that got too close. I'd be just as likely to lop the mast off or cut a hole in the sails as save anyone. Then the nichevo'ya were skittering down onto the deck. Mal fired again and again as the crewmen drew their sabers, but bullets and blades seemed only to slow the monsters. Their shadow bodies wavered and re-formed, and they just kept coming.

The schooner was still moving ahead, widening the distance between itself and the whaler, which was growing smaller as we left it behind. _Not fast enough._ I heard that shrieking moan, and another wave of shifting, slithering dark was headed toward us, already separating into winged bodies, reinforcements for the shadow soldiers.

Sturmhond saw it, too. He pointed to one of the Squallers still summoning wind to the sails. “Lightning,” he shouted.

I blanched. He couldn’t mean it. Squallers were never permitted to draw lightning. It was too unpredictable, too dangerous, impossible to control—and on open seas? With wooden ships? But Sturmhond’s Grisha didn’t hesitate. The Squallers clapped their hands together, rubbing their palms back and forth. My ears popped as the pressure plummeted. The air crackled with current.

We had just enough time to hurl ourselves to the deck as jagged bolts of lightning zigzagged across the sky. The new wave of nichevo’ya scattered in momentary confusion.

“Go!” Sturmhond bellowed. “Squallers at full!” Mal and I were thrown against the railing as the schooner shot forward. The sleek ship seemed to fly over the waves.

I saw another black swell billow out from the side of the whaler, which was now little more than a blur of brown in the distance. I lurched to my feet and braced myself, gathering my strength for another onslaught.

But it did not come. It seemed there was a limit to the Darkling’s power. We’d edged out of his range.

I leaned over the railing. The wind and sea spray stung my skin as the Darkling’s ship and his monsters disappeared from view. Something between a laugh and a sob racked my chest.

Mal threw his arms around me and held tight. I stood there, too numb to do anything but put a hand on his arm, feeling the wet press of his shirt against my cheek, listening to the pounding of his heart, clinging to the unbelievable truth that we were still alive.

Then, despite the blood they’d shed and the friends they’d lost, the schooner’s crew broke into cheers. They whooped and hollered and barked and growled. In the rigging, Tolya lifted his rifle with one hand and threw his head back, releasing a howl of triumph that lifted the hair on my arms.

Mal and I drew apart, gazing at the crewmen yipping and laughing around us. I knew we were both thinking the same thing: We were free of the Darkling. But just what had we gotten ourselves into now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/24/17: IVAN LIIIIIVES ....Probably.


	6. Mercy

We slumped back against the railing and scooted down until we were seated beside each other, exhausted and dazed. We’d escaped the Darkling, but we were on a strange ship, surrounded by a bunch of crazed Grisha dressed as sailors and howling like wolves.

“You all right?” Mal asked.

I nodded numbly. The wound in my shoulder felt like it was on fire, but I was unhurt and my whole body was thrumming from using so much of my power.

“You?” I asked.

“Not a scratch on me,” Mal said in disbelief.

“Huh,” I said in appreciation.

The ship rode the waves at seemingly impossible speed, driven forward by Squallers and what I realized were Tidemakers. As the terror and thrill of the battle receded, I noticed I was soaked. My teeth began to chatter in the wind produced by our speed. Mal put his arm around me and I leaned into him, and at some point, one of the crew dropped a blanket over us.

Finally, Sturmhond called a halt and ordered the sails trimmed. The Squallers and Tidemakers dropped their arms and fell against each other, completely spent. Their power had left their faces glowing, their eyes alight.

The schooner slowed until it rocked gently in what suddenly seemed like an overwhelming silence.

“Keep a watch,” Sturmhond commanded, and Privyet sent a sailor up into the shrouds with a long glass. Mal slowly got to his feet.

Sturmhond walked down the row of exhausted Etherealki, clapping Squallers and Tidemakers on the back and saying quiet words to a few of them. I saw him directing injured sailors belowdecks, where I assumed they’d be seen by a ship’s surgeon or maybe a Corporalki Healer. The privateer seemed to have every kind of Grisha in his employ.

Then Sturmhond strode toward me, pulling a knife from his belt. I clambered to my feet. Mal stepped in front of me, leveling his rifle at Sturmhond’s chest. Instantly, I heard swords being drawn and pistols cocking all around us as the crew drew their weapons. I let angry light gather around my hands and hoped the threat was clear.

“Easy,” Sturmhond said, his eyes on Mal and his steps slowing. “I’ve just gone to a lot of trouble and expense to put you on my ship. Be a shame to fill you full of holes now. I'm not certain how well we'd fare, either,” he said with a nod toward me. He flipped the knife over, offering the hilt to me. “This is for the beast.”

The sea whip. In the excitement of the battle and our flight, I’d almost forgotten.

Mal hesitated, then cautiously lowered his rifle.

“Stand down,” Sturmhond instructed his crew. They holstered their pistols and put up their swords.

Sturmhond nodded to Tamar. “Haul it in.”

On Tamar’s orders, a group of sailors leaned over the starboard rail and unlashed a complex webbing of ropes. They heaved, and slowly raised the sea whip’s body over the schooner’s side. It thumped to the deck, still struggling weakly in the silvery confines of the net. It gave a vicious thrash, its huge teeth snapping. We all jumped back.

“As I understand it, you have to be the one,” said Sturmhond, holding the knife out to me once more. I eyed the privateer, wondering how much he might know about amplifiers, and this amplifier in particular.

“Go on,” he said. “We need to get moving. The Darkling’s ship is disabled, but it won’t stay that way.”

The blade in Sturmhond’s hand gleamed dully in the sun. Grisha steel. Somehow I wasn’t surprised.

Still, I hesitated.

“I just lost thirteen good men,” Sturmhond said quietly. “Don’t tell me it was all for nothing.”

I looked at the sea whip. It lay twitching on the deck, iridescent blood slowly leaking down its sides, air fluttering through its gills. Its red eyes were cloudy, but still full of rage. Even if we released it, there was no chance it would not survive. I remembered the stag’s dark, steady gaze, the quiet panic of its final moments.

I took the knife. It felt heavy in my hand. _Is this mercy?,_ I wondered. It certainly wasn’t the same mercy I had shown Morozova’s stag. The mercy that had led to everything going so wrong, so quickly. But this creature was hardly wandering, free and healthy, in its home.

The sea whip’s sides heaved. It snapped its jaws uselessly in the air. Two harpoons extended from its back, watery blood trickling from the wounds. I held the knife up, unsure of what to do, where to put the blade. Could it pierce the scales? Where might the creature's heart be? My arms shook. The sea whip gave a wheezing, pitiful sigh, a weak echo of that magical choir.

“I. . .where? How do I. . . ?” I asked. My voice was so quiet, I could barely hear it. My eyes didn't leave Rusalye.

“The eye,” Sturmhond said gently. “Straight and hard through the socket.”

I nodded numbly and walked forward. The sea whip snapped its jaws and flung its tail as I neared, but it was so weak, the movements were little more than furious twitches.

I gripped the knife, my palms going slick. I swallowed.

Mal strode forward. “End it, Alina,” he said hoarsely. “For Saints’ sake.”

I positioned the knife over the dragon's red eye. It tracked my movement, and felt its rage like my own. I knew the freedom of a life slicing through cold waters, the feel of diving deep, cresting in the sun, knowing what it felt like to be master of my world. And now it lay here, helpless but unbowed, anger and power unbroken. I pressed the heel of my hand into the end of the hilt, squeezed my eyes shut, and drove the blade in.

The sea whip shuddered, twitched, and then went still.

I don't know how long I crouched there, still clutching the knife. I felt a hand on my back.

“Alina,” Mal said. “Come away. It's gone.”

I rose on shaking legs and leaned into Mal as he put an arm around me. I felt one of his rough fingertips slide over my cheek to wipe away a tear. I hadn't realized I was crying. The knife fell from my hand and clattered to the deck.

Tolya and Tamar came forward. My stomach churned. I knew what had to come next. _That isn’t true,_ said a voice in my head. _You can walk away. Leave it be._ And wouldn't that be the right choice? Rusalye was dead. The second amplifier could die with it, sink unclaimed to the bottom of the ocean. The Darkling's plan could fail before it began. Again, I had the sense that things were moving too fast. But I couldn’t just throw an amplifier like this back into the sea. The dragon had already given up its life. And taking the amplifier didn’t have to mean that I would use it.

The sea whip’s scales were an iridescent white that shimmered with soft rainbows, except for a single strip that began between its large eyes and ran over the ridge of its skull into its soft mane—those were edged in shining gold.

Tamar slid a dagger from her belt and, with Tolya’s help, worked the scales free. I didn’t let myself look away. When they were done, my cheeks were wet with tears, and they handed me seven perfect scales, still wet with blood.

“Let us bow our heads for the men lost today,” Sturmhond said. “Good sailors. Good soldiers. Let the sea carry them to safe harbor, and may the Saints receive them on a brighter shore.”

He repeated the Sailor’s Prayer in Kerch and Fjerdan, then Tamar murmured the words in Shu. For a moment, we stood on the rocking ship, heads bent. A lump rose in my throat.

More men dead and another magical, ancient creature gone, its body desecrated by Grisha steel. I laid my hand on the sea whip’s shimmering hide. It was cool and slick beneath my fingers, made for a life of slicing effortlessly through the waves. Its red eyes were cloudy and blank. I gripped the golden scales in my palm, feeling their edges dig into my flesh. What Saints waited for creatures like this?

A long minute passed and then Sturmhond murmured, “Saints receive them.”

“Saints receive them,” replied the crew.

“We need to move,” Sturmhond said quietly. “The whaler’s hull was cracked, but the Darkling has Squallers and a Fabrikator or two, and for all I know, those monsters of his can be trained to use a hammer and nails. Let’s not take any chances.” He turned to Privyet. “Give the Squallers a few minutes to rest and get me a damage report, then make sail.”

“Da, kapitan,” Privyet responded crisply. He hesitated. “Kapitan. . .could be people will pay good money for dragon scales, no matter the color.”

Sturmhond frowned, but then gave a terse nod. “Take what you want, then clear the deck and get us moving. You have our coordinates.”

Several of the crew fell on the sea whip’s body to cut away its scales. This I couldn’t watch. I turned my back on them, my gut in knots and unable to block the sounds of cutting and prying. I wiped my face of tears, unwilling to let any more fall this day.

Sturmhond came up beside me.

“Don’t judge them too harshly,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“I'm not judging them at all,” I said. “That doesn't mean I don't hate it. Besides, you're the one who told them they could, 'kapitan.'”

“They have purses to fill, parents and siblings to feed. We just lost nearly half our crew and took no rich prize to ease the sting. Not that you aren’t fetching.”

“I thought you were immune to tales of woe. So what am I doing here?” I asked. “Why did you help us?”

“Are you so sure I have?”

“This was a decidedly unwise move if not.”

“Answer the question, Sturmhond,” said Mal, joining us. “Why hunt the sea whip if you only meant to turn it over to Alina?”

“I wasn’t hunting the sea whip. I was hunting you.”

“That’s why you raised a mutiny against the Darkling?” I asked, mouth agape. “To get at me?”

“You can’t very well mutiny on your own ship.”

“Call it what you like,” I said hotly, my temper fraying. “Call it a high opera for all I care. Just explain yourself.”

Sturmhond leaned back and rested his elbows on the rail, surveying the deck. “As I would have explained to the Darkling had he bothered to ask—which, thankfully, he didn’t—the problem with hiring a man who sells his honor is that you can always be outbid.”

I gaped at him. “You betrayed the Darkling for money? The infamously powerful, merciless, pitiless Darkling? The one who never met an obsessive grudge he didn't like?”

“‘Betrayed’ seems a strong word. I hardly know the fellow.”

“You’re out of your mind,” I said. “You know what he can do. No prize is worth that.”

Sturmhond grinned. “That remains to be seen.”

“The Darkling will hunt you for the rest of your life.”

“Then you and I will have something in common, won’t we? Besides, I like to have powerful enemies. Makes me feel important.”

I snorted. “Don't flatter yourself.”

Mal crossed his arms and considered the privateer. “I can’t decide if you’re crazy or stupid.”

“I have so many good qualities,” Sturmhond said. “It can be hard to choose.”

I shook my head. The man _was_ out of his mind. “If the Darkling was outbid, then who hired you? And where are you taking us?”

“First answer a question for me,” Sturmhond said, reaching into his frock coat. He drew a little red volume from his pocket and tossed it to me. “Why was the Darkling carrying this around with him? He doesn’t strike me as the religious type.”

I caught it and turned it over, verifying what I already knew it was. Its gold lettering sparkled in the sun.

“Perhaps he's the type who likes children's stories,” I said flatly.

“I'd say I've been surprised before, but I do so hate lying.”

I made a derisive noise. “You stole it?” I asked.

“And a number of other documents from his cabin. Although, again, since it was technically my cabin, I’m not sure you can call it theft.”

“Technically,” I observed in irritation, “the cabin belongs to the whaling captain you 'acquired' the ship from.”

“Fair enough,” admitted Sturmhond. “If this whole Sun Summoner thing doesn’t work out, you might consider a career as a barrister. You seem to have the carping disposition. But I should point out that this actually belongs to you.”

He reached out and flipped the book open. My name was inscribed inside the cover in a swirling hand: _Alina Starkov._

I tried to keep my face blank, but my mind was suddenly racing. This was my _Istorii Sankt’ya,_ the very copy the Apparat had given to me months ago in the library of the Little Palace. The Darkling would have had my room searched after I fled Os Alta, but why keep this book? Why keep it with him? And why had he been so concerned that I might have read it?

I thumbed through the pages. The volume was beautifully illustrated, though given that it was meant for children, it was awfully gruesome. Some of the Saints were depicted performing miracles or acts of charity: Sankt Feliks among the apple boughs. Sankta Anastasia ridding Arkesk of the wasting plague. But most of the pages showed the Saints in their martyrdoms: Sankta Lizabeta being drawn and quartered, the beheading of Sankt Lubov, Sankt Ilya in Chains. I froze. This time I could not disguise my reaction.

“Interesting, no?” said Sturmhond. He tapped the page with one long finger. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, that’s the creature we just captured.”

There was no hiding it: Behind Sankt Ilya, splashing around in the waves of a lake or an ocean, was the distinctive shape of the sea whip. But that wasn’t all. Somehow, I kept my hand from straying to the collar at my neck.

I shut the book and shrugged. “Read enough stories and you're bound to find something with a parallel to your life. Even if the parallel is a mythical creature, apparently.”

“Or two,” Sturmhond replied.

Mal shot me a baffled look. I didn’t know if he’d seen what was on that page.

I didn’t want to return the _Istorii Sankt’ya_ to Sturmhond, but he was already suspicious enough. I made myself hold it out to him, hoping he couldn’t see the tremor in my hand. “If you think there's something in here worth seeing, then by all means.”

Sturmhond studied me, then levered himself up and shook out his cuffs. “Keep it. It is yours, after all. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I have a deep respect for personal property. Besides, you’ll need something to keep you occupied until we get to Os Kervo.”

Mal and I both gave a start.

“You’re taking us to West Ravka?” I asked, my voice pitched high.

“I’m taking you to meet my client, and that’s really all I can tell you.”

“Can or will?”

“It would amount to the same in the end, no?”

“Who is he? What does he want from me?”

“Are you so sure it’s a he? Maybe I’m delivering you to the Fjerdan Queen.”

“At Os Kervo? I don't think so.”

“It's always wise to keep an open mind.”

I blew out a frustrated breath. “Do you ever answer a question directly?”

“Hard to say. Ah, there, I’ve done it again.”

I turned to Mal, fists clenched. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Answer the question, Sturmhond,” Mal said, voice cold.

Sturmhond lifted a brow. “Two things you should know,” he said, and this time I heard that hint of that steel in his voice. “One, captains don’t like taking orders on their own ships. Two, I’d like to offer you a deal.”

Mal snorted. “Why would we ever trust you?”

“You don’t have much choice,” Sturmhond said pleasantly. “I’m well aware that you could sink this ship and consign us all to the watery deep, but I hope you’ll take your chances with my client. Listen to what he has to say. If you don’t like what he proposes, I swear to help you make your escape. Take you anywhere in the world.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So you crossed the Darkling, and now you’re going to turn right around and betray your new client, too? I'm surprised you stay in business, with all the glowing recommendations you must get.”

“Not at all,” said Sturmhond, genuinely affronted. “I'm a man of integrity. My client paid me to get you to Ravka, not to keep you there. That would be extra.”

"So if we decide we don't like the offer, you're what, going to help us out of the kindness of your heart? I don't see you as being the charitable type."

"Perhaps you underestimate the leverage of a pretty face, Alina." He winked at me, and I saw Mal go rigid. "Or maybe it's worth the gamble to ensure you'll hear my client out before you go running off into the sunset together. Either way, the offer is genuine."

I looked at Mal. He heaved a deep breath, then lifted a shoulder and said, “He’s a liar and probably insane, but he’s also right. We don’t have much choice. What little coin we had gathered, they took.”

I rubbed my temples. I felt a headache coming on. I was tired and confused and tired, and Sturmhond had a way of talking that made me want to shoot someone. Preferably him. But selfish motives or no, he’d freed us from the Darkling, and once Mal and I were off his ship, we might find our own way to escape. For now, I couldn’t think much beyond that.

“Fine,” I sighed.

He smiled. “So good to know you won’t be drowning us all.”

“Yet,” I muttered under my breath.

Sturmhond beckoned a deckhand who had been hovering nearby. “Fetch Tamar and tell her she’ll be sharing her quarters with the Summoner,” he instructed. Then he pointed to Mal. “He can stay with Tolya.”

Before Mal could open his mouth to protest, Sturmhond forestalled him. “That’s the way of things on this ship. I’m giving you both free run of the Volkvolny until we reach Ravka, but I beg you not to trifle with my generous nature. The ship has rules, and I have limits.”

“You and me both,” Mal said through gritted teeth.

I laid my hand on Mal’s arm. “I'm surprised you would keep a married couple apart.”

“I must have missed the rings.”

“We did just mention we were robbed.”

“You'll pardon my dubious nature.”

"Will I?”

Sturmhond smiled. “I'm afraid I have to insist. I can hardly expect my crew to follow the rules when I make exceptions for cargo.”

Between that comment, what we had just gone through and the torture of the last two weeks, Mal was tight as a bowstring. “Let it go,” I said quietly to him. “We'll be fine. I don't sleep much, anyway. As you know,” I added, with a spiked glance at Sturmhond. I would have felt safer staying together, but this wasn’t the time to quibble with the privateer.

Mal scowled, then turned on his heel and strode across the deck, disappearing into the ordered chaos of rope and sail. I turned to go after him.

“Might want to leave him alone,” Sturmhond said. “That type needs plenty of time for brooding and self-recrimination. Otherwise they get cranky.”

“Do you take anything seriously?”

“Not if I can help it. Makes life so tedious.”

I shook my head. “This client—”

“Don’t bother asking. Needless to say, I’ve had plenty of bidders. You’re in very high demand since you disappeared from the Fold. Of course, most people think you’re dead. Tends to drive the price down. Try not to take it personally.”

“You are aware that you're infuriating?”

"I prefer quixotic and delightfully complex."

I looked across the deck to where the crew were finally hefting the sea whip’s body over the ship’s rail. With a straining heave, they rolled it over the side of the schooner. It struck the water with a loud splash. That quickly, Rusalye, the dragon of legend, was gone, swallowed by the sea.

A long whistle blew. The crewmen scattered to their stations, and the Squallers took their places. Seconds later, the sails bloomed like great white flowers—the schooner was once more on its way, tacking southeast to Ravka, to home.

“What are you going to do with those scales?” Sturmhond asked.

“. . .I don’t know.”

“Don’t you? Despite my dazzling good looks, I’m not quite the pretty fool I appear to be. The Darkling intended for you to wear them.”

So why hadn't he killed it? Why not simplify the capture and get that much closer to having me back under his control?

“Which is a very good reason not to,” I replied. “Last time he picked out an amplifier for me, it was so he could take control of my powers. Besides, I already have one,” I said.

“A powerful one, if the stories are true.”

“Don't let them fool you. It may look like an object of legendary power, but in reality, I just have eclectic taste in accessories.”

“Is that why you fled?”

I looked over at him and raised my brows in question.

“You said he wanted to control you. There are rumors of what happened, but the only ones who made it out of the Fold that day were the Darkling and his people, and you and your friend.”

“Husband.”

He stared at me and arched one russet brow.

A breath puffed out of me. “Fine. We're not married. But we will be,” I said firmly. _Some day, if we live long enough,_ I thought, flushing. “To answer your question, yes, that was why I ran. The antlers are unique, the only amplifier of its kind," _maybe,_ I amended silently, "and not just because it's so powerful. Whoever killed the stag could control the powers of the Grisha who wore its amplifier.

"The Darkling doesn't just want Ravka. He wants the world. He says his goal is to bring peace, but it's peace under his banner, on his terms, and he will crush anyone who doesn't fall in line. His plan was to use the Shadow Fold to force Fjerda and Shu Han to cede to his command. That's why he destroyed Novokribursk - he needed the representatives and ambassadors to know there was nothing he wouldn't sacrifice, nothing he would hesitate to do, not even to his own people. But he needs me to protect him from the volcra any time he wants to enter the Fold to expand it. Thus the antlers." I gestured to the collar. "For some reason, he thought I might not be eager to help of my own free will,” I finished drily.

“That's not a terrible plan,” Sturmhond said, his tone almost appreciative.

I gaped at him.

“I didn't say I thought it was a good idea. There's a rather large difference.”

“To go back to your original question,” I went on peevishly, “amplifiers can’t be combined. It's natural law, no more possible than alchemy or bringing people back from the dead.”

“I saw the book,” he replied. “It certainly looks like they can.”

“If you get your scientific information from children's stories, you might want to withdraw that comment about not being a fool.”

I felt the weight of the _Istorii Sankt’ya_ in my pocket. Had the Darkling feared I might learn Morozova’s secrets from the pages of a children’s book?

“You don’t understand what you’re saying,” I went on. “No Grisha has ever taken a second amplifier. The risk—”

“Now, that’s a word best not used around me. I tend to be overfond of risk.”

“Not this kind,” I said grimly.

“Pity,” he murmured. “If the Darkling catches up to us, I doubt this ship or this crew will survive another battle. A second amplifier might even the odds. Better yet, give us an edge. I do so hate a fair fight.”

"I'll bear that in mind. But in my experience, the kind of person who likes to risk ending the world for power tends to wear a lot of black. I've developed an odd distaste for the color. The scales could even the odds, yes. They could also kill me, sink the ship, turn us all into monsters, create another Shadow Fold, or worse.”

“You certainly have a flare for the dire.”

“It's been a rough few months,” I replied acidly. My fingers snaked into my pocket, seeking out the damp edges of the scales. I had so little information, and my knowledge of Grisha theory was sketchy at best. But this rule had always seemed fairly clear: one Grisha, one amplifier. I remembered the words from one of the convoluted philosophy texts I’d been required to read: _“Why can a Grisha possess but one amplifier? I will answer this question instead: What is infinite? The universe and the greed of men.”_ I needed time to think.

“Will you keep your word?” I asked. “Will you help us escape?” I didn’t know why I bothered asking. If he intended to betray us, he certainly wouldn’t say so. Maybe I hoped I could read something on his strange face.

I expected him to reply with some kind of joke, so I was surprised when he said, “Are you so eager to leave your country behind once again?”

I stilled. _All the while, your country suffers._ The Darkling had accused me of abandoning Ravka. He was wrong about a lot of things, but I couldn’t help feeling that he was right about that. I’d left my country to the mercy of the Shadow Fold, to a weak king and grasping tyrants like the Darkling and the Apparat. Now, if the rumors could be believed, the Fold was expanding and Ravka was falling apart. Because of the Darkling. Because of the collar. Because I existed.

I lifted my face to the sun, feeling the rush of sea air over my skin, and said, “I’m eager to be free.”

“As long as the Darkling lives, you’ll never be free. And neither will Ravka. You know that.”

I’d considered the possibility that Sturmhond was greedy or walking the line of insanity, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he might actually be a patriot. He was Ravkan, after all, and even if his exploits had lined his own pockets, they’d probably done more to help his country than all of the feeble Ravkan navy.

“And yet if I gamble poorly," I said, "if I make the wrong decision, they'll all suffer even more. What I want is the choice."

“You’ll have it,” he replied. “On my word as a liar and cutthroat.” He set off across the deck but then turned back to me. “You are right about one thing, Summoner. The Darkling is a powerful enemy. You might want to think about making some powerful friends.”

 

* * * * * 

  
I wanted nothing more than to pull the copy of the Istorii Sankt’ya from my pocket and spend an hour studying the illustration of Sankt Ilya, but Tamar was already waiting to escort me to her quarters.

Sturmhond’s schooner wasn’t at all like the sturdy merchant ship that had carried Mal and me to Novyi Zem, or the clunky whaler we’d just left behind. It was sleek, heavily armed, and beautifully built. Tamar told me that he’d captured it from a Zemeni pirate who was picking off Ravkan ships near the ports of the southern coast. Sturmhond had liked the vessel so much that he’d taken it for his own flagship and renamed it Volkvolny, Wolf of the Waves.

Wolves. Stormhound. The red dog on the ship’s flag. At least I knew why the crew were always howling and yapping.

Every inch of space on the schooner was put to use. The crew slept on the gun deck. In case of engagement, their hammocks could be quickly stowed and the cannon slotted into place. I’d been right about the fact that, with Corporalki on board, there was no need for an otkazat’sya surgeon. The doctor’s quarters and supply room had been turned into Tamar’s berth. The cabin was tiny, with barely enough room for two hammocks and a chest. The walls were lined with cupboards full of unused ointments and salves, arsenic powder, tincture of lead antimony.

I balanced carefully on one of the hammocks, my feet resting on the floor, acutely conscious of the red book tucked inside my coat as I watched Tamar throw open the lid of her trunk and begin divesting herself of weapons: the brace of pistols that crossed her chest, two slender axes from her belt, a dagger from her boot, and another from the sheath secured around her thigh. She was a walking armory.

“I feel sorry for your friend,” she said as she pulled what looked like a sock full of ball bearings from one of her pockets. It hit the bottom of the chest with a loud thunk.

“Why?” I asked, making a circle on the planks with the toe of my boot.

“My brother snores like a drunk bear.”

I laughed. “Mal snores, too.”

“Then they can perform a duet.” She disappeared and then returned a moment later with a bucket. “The Tidemakers filled the rain barrels,” she said. “Feel free to wash if you like.”

Fresh water was usually a luxury aboard ship, but I supposed that with Grisha in the crew, there would be no need to ration it.

She dunked her head in the bucket and ruffled her short dark hair. “He’s handsome, the tracker.”

I rolled my eyes and snorted. “You don’t say.”

“Not my type, but handsome.”

My brows shot up. In my experience, Mal was everyone’s type. But I wasn’t going to start asking Tamar personal questions. If Sturmhond couldn’t be trusted, then neither could his crew, and I didn’t need to grow attached to any of them. I’d learned my lesson with Genya, and one shattered friendship was enough. Instead, I said, “There are Kerch in Sturmhond’s crew. Aren’t they superstitious about having a girl onboard?”

“Sturmhond does things his own way.”

“And they don’t. . .bother you?”

Tamar grinned, her white teeth flashing against her bronze skin. She tapped the gleaming shark’s tooth hanging around her neck, and I realized it was an amplifier. “No,” she said simply.

My brows shot up. “Ah.”

Faster than I could blink, she pulled yet another knife from her sleeve. “This comes in handy, too,” she said.

“However do you choose?” I breathed, chuckling weakly.

“Depends on my mood.” Then she flipped the knife over in her hand and offered it to me. “Sturmhond’s given orders that you’re to be left alone, but just in case someone gets drunk and forgetful. . .you do know how to take care of yourself?”

I nodded and took the dagger, my lips curling up at the corners. I didn’t walk around with thirty knives hidden about my person, but I was far from incompetent. I'd been fending off unwanted advances since I'd been a teenager, and that had been without the use of my Grisha abilities, and well before I'd gotten the most powerful amplifier the world had ever known.

She dunked her head again, then said, “They’re throwing dice above deck, and I’m ready for my ration. You can come if you like.”

I didn’t care much for gambling or rum, but I was still tempted. My whole body was crackling with the feeling of having used so much of my power. I was restless and more famished than I'd been even over the last week. But I shook my head with half a smile. “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself. I have debts to collect. Privyet wagered we wouldn’t be coming back. I swear he looked like a mourner at a funeral when we came over that rail.”

“He bet you’d be killed?” I said, aghast.

She laughed. “I don’t blame him. To go up against the Darkling and his Grisha? Everyone knew it was suicide. The crew ended up drawing straws to see who got stuck with the honor.”

“I hope you and your brother aren't always that unlucky.”

“Us?” Tamar paused in the doorway. Her hair was damp, and the lamplight glinted off her Heartrender’s grin. “We didn’t draw anything,” she said as she stepped through the door. “We volunteered.”

 

* * * * *

  
I didn't have a chance to talk to Mal alone until late that night. We’d been invited to dine with Sturmhond in his quarters, and it seemed like it would be a missed opportunity to refuse. It had been a strange supper. The meal was served by the steward, a servant of impeccable manners, who was several years older than even the most seasoned of Sturmhond's crew. We ate better than we had in weeks: fresh bread, roasted haddock, pickled radishes, and a sweet iced wine that had my set my head spinning after just a few small drinks.

My appetite was fierce, as it always was after I’d used my power, but Mal ate little and said less until Sturmhond mentioned the shipment of arms he was bringing back to Ravka. Then he seemed to perk up and they spent the rest of the meal talking about guns, grenades, and exciting ways to make things explode. I couldn’t seem to pay attention. As they yammered on about the repeating rifles used on the Zemeni frontier, all I could think about were the scales in my pocket and what I intended to do with them.

Did I dare try to claim a second amplifier for myself? If the scales functioned like Morozova’s antlers, then their power was also mine to bestow. But I had to admit that I didn't want anyone else wearing them.

I took another sip of wine. I needed to talk to Mal.

To distract myself, I left the table and slowly strolled around Sturmhond's cabin, cataloging its trappings as he and Mal gabbled about weapons and their tactical possibilities. Everything was gleaming wood and polished brass. The desk was littered with charts, the pieces of a dismembered sextant, and strange drawings of what looked like the hinged wing of a mechanical bird. The table glittered with Kerch porcelain and crystal. The wines bore labels in a language I didn’t recognize. _All plunder,_ I realized. Sturmhond had done well for himself.

As for the captain, I took the opportunity to really look at him for the first time. He couldn't have been more than a year or two older than Mal and I, if that. And there was something very odd about his face. His chin was overly pointy. His eyes were a muddy green, his hair a peculiar shade of red. His nose looked like it had been broken and badly set several times. It was as if his features were formed of parts that somehow didn't fit together. At one point, he caught me studying him, and I could have sworn he turned his face away from the light.

When we finally left Sturmhond’s cabin, it was past midnight. I herded Mal above deck to a secluded spot by the ship’s prow. I knew there were men on watch in the foretop above us, but I didn’t know when I’d have another chance to get him alone.

“I like him,” Mal was saying, alert but a little unsteady on his feet from the wine. “I mean, he talks too much, and he’d probably steal the buttons from your boots, but he’s not a bad guy, and he seems to know a lot about—”

“Mal, shut up,” I whispered. “I need to show you something.”

Mal peered at me blearily. “No need to be rude.”

“I'll make it up to you later,” I said impatiently. I pulled the red book out of my pocket. “Look,” I said, holding the page open and casting a glow over Sankt Ilya’s exultant face.

Mal went still. “The stag,” he said. “. . .And Rusalye.” I watched him examine the illustration and saw the moment that realization struck. “Saints,” he breathed. “There’s a third.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story spoiler in the comments


	7. Natural Law

Sankt Ilya Stood barefoot on the shore of a dark sea. He wore the ragged remnants of a purple robe, his arms outstretched, his palms turned upward. His face had the blissful, placid expression Saints always seemed to wear in paintings, usually right before they were murdered in some horrific way. Around his neck he wore an iron collar that had once been connected to the heavy fetters around his wrists by thick chains. Now the chains hung broken by his sides.

Behind Sankt Ilya, a sinuous white serpent crested in the waves.

A white stag lay at his feet, gazing out at us with dark, steady eyes.

Mountains crowded the background behind the Saint’s left shoulder, and there, barely visible in the distance, a great bird circled a towering stone arch.

Mal’s finger traced its long tailfeathers, rendered in white and the same pale gold that illuminated Sankt Ilya’s halo. “It can’t be,” he said.

“The stag was real. So was the sea whip.”

“But this is. . .different.”

He was right. The firebird didn’t belong to one story, but to a thousand. It was at the heart of every Ravkan myth, the inspiration for countless plays and ballads, novels and operas. Ravka’s borders were said to have been sketched by the firebird’s flight. Its rivers ran with the firebird’s tears. Its capital was said to have been founded where a firebird’s feather fell to earth. A young warrior had picked up that feather and carried it into battle. No army had been able to stand against him, and he became the first king of Ravka. Or so the legends went.

The firebird _was_ Ravka. It was not meant to be brought down by a tracker’s arrow, or its bones worn for the greater glory of some upstart orphan.

“Sankt Ilya,” Mal said.

“Ilya Morozova.”

“A Grisha Saint?”

I touched the tip of my finger to the page, to the collar, to the two fetters on Morozova’s wrists. “Three amplifiers. Three creatures. And we have two of them.”

Mal gave his head a firm shake, probably trying to clear away the haze of wine. Abruptly, he shut the book. For a second, I thought he might throw it into the sea, but then he handed it back to me.

“What are we supposed to do with this?” he said. He sounded almost angry.

I’d thought about that all afternoon, all evening, all night, throughout that interminable dinner, my fingers straying to the sea whip’s scales again and again, as if anxious to make sure they were still there.

“Well. . .Sturmhond has Fabrikators in his crew. He thinks I should use the scales.” I took a steadying breath. “And I hate to say this, but I think he might be right.”

Mal’s head snapped around. “What?”

I swallowed nervously and plunged ahead. “When we were in the glade with the stag, I could feel it. Feel it like I _was_ the stag, like I had lived its whole life as my own. As horrible as it was when the Darkling killed it and put the collar on me, I realized that the amplifier felt like a piece of me. When Sturmhond's men were going after Rusalye, it felt like it had with the stag. I knew what it felt like to swim through those waters, to hunt with my teeth, to live in that ice.

“When we got out of the Fold, I told you that thinking about removing the collar was the like thinking about cutting off a limb. And now, the scales. . .I haven't been able to stop touching them. I can't tell whether I want them or they want me, but there's something there. A pull. And I just wonder. . . . You were the one who said we should go after the antlers in the first place, so we could stop the Darkling once and for all. You said that running from him wouldn't work. I didn't want to believe it, but you were right. Except the stag’s power isn’t enough. Not to defeat him, and not to destroy the Fold.”

Mall looked at me like he was trying to choose his words carefully. Or like he had so much to say that he had to choose what to say first. “And your answer is a second amplifier?”

“. . .For now.” I hedged

“For now?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Saints,” he swore. “You want all three. You want to hunt the firebird.”

I felt suddenly foolish, greedy, even a little ridiculous. “'Want' is a subjective term. . . .” I shifted nervously. “The illustration—”

“It’s just a picture, Alina,” he whispered furiously. “It’s a drawing by some dead monk.”

“I don't think that's true. And what if it’s more? The Darkling told me a long time ago that. . .I feel ridiculous saying this, but he told me that he felt like the stag was meant for me, that that's why no one had ever been able to find it before, in all the hundreds of years they'd been searching. Even he had been looking over all those supposed generations. And on the ship, he said Morozova’s amplifiers were different, that they were meant to be used together.”

“So now you’re taking advice from murderers?”

“No, but—”

“Did you make any other plans with the Darkling while you were holed up together belowdecks?”

My eyes narrowed. “Yes, Mal. We talked about how I'm secretly in love with him and plotted the best way for me to leave you. For the murdering psychopath who hunts me like a game animal and wanted nothing more than to take away my free will. Then I sat on his knee and told him I wanted a pony for the winter feast. We weren’t 'holed up together,'” I said sharply. “He was just trying to get under your skin. And mine.”

“Well. . .it worked,” he said, but my diatribe seemed to have taken the heat out of him. We stood calmly for a time, feeling the cool wind of the sea on our skin. He gripped the ship’s railing, his knuckles flexing white. “Someday I’m going to put an arrow through that bastard’s neck.”

Something in my gut gave a weak twist, and I heard the echo of the Darkling’s voice. _There are no others like us._ I pushed it aside and reached out to lay my hand on Mal’s arm. “You found the stag, and you found the sea whip. You can find the firebird, too. Even the Darkling thought so. . .or he wouldn't have left you alive.”

He laughed outright, a rueful sound, but I was relieved to hear the bitter edge was gone. “I’m a good tracker, Alina, but I’m not that good. We need someplace to start. The firebird could be anywhere in the world.”

“Does that mean you'll do it?”

He hung his head for a moment. Finally, he sighed and covered my hand with his own. “I don’t even remember anything about Sankt Ilya.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder, awash with gratitude and relief. “Me neither,” I said.

There were hundreds of Saints, one for every tiny village and backwater in Ravka. Besides, at Keramzin, religion was considered a peasant preoccupation. We’d gone to church only once or twice a year. My thoughts strayed to the Apparat. He had given me the _Istorii Sankt’ya,_ but I had no way of knowing what he intended by it, or if he even knew the secret it contained.

“But with everything else that's in that picture," I said, "the arch must mean something.”

“Do you recognize it?”

When I’d first glanced at the illustration, the arch had seemed almost familiar. But I’d looked at countless books of maps during my training as a cartographer. My memory was a blur of valleys and monuments from Ravka and beyond. “No.”

“Of course not. That would be too easy.” He released a long breath, then turned and drew me closer, studying my face in the moonlight. He touched the collar at my neck. “Alina,” he said, “how do we know what these things will do to you? Are amplifiers aren't supposed to work like this? Calling to you?”

“Not normal amplifiers, no. But these are hardly normal. And. . .we don't,” I admitted.

“But you want them anyway. The stag. The sea whip. The firebird.”

“I didn't want the stag. The rest. . .it's a risk. But do we have a choice?”

I thought of the surge of exultation that had come from using my power in the battle against the Darkling’s horde, the way my body fizzed and thrummed when I wielded the Cut. What might it feel like to have that power doubled? Trebled? The thought made me dizzy.

I looked up at the star-filled sky. The night was velvety black and strewn with jewels. I thought of the scales nested safely in my pocket and a restless shiver moved over me. A hunger struck me suddenly, a hunger I quickly pushed away, afraid to look at it.

I ran my thumb down the spine of the _Istorii Sankt’ya._ It was possible I was only seeing what I wanted to see. But I wasn't the only one who had seen it. The Darkling thought something was here. So did Sturmhond. Was it only greed driving me? The same greed that had driven the Darkling so many centuries ago, the greed that had turned him into the Black Heretic and crippled Ravka? Either way, I couldn’t escape the truth that without the amplifiers, I was no match for him. And if I was no match for him, then no one was. No one ever would be, now that I had the antlers and the scales. Mal and I were low on options. The world was low on options.

“I don't know if I want them,” I finally said. _That's a lie,_ a voice in me hissed. I shoved it down. “But we need them. Two might be enough, but somehow I doubt it. I think we need all three if we ever want to stop running. If we ever want to be free.”

Mal traced the line of my throat, the curve of my cheek, and all the while, he held my gaze. I felt like he was looking for an answer there, but when he finally spoke, he just said, “All right.”

He kissed me once, gently, and though I tried to ignore it, there was something mournful in the touch of his lips.  


* * * * *

 

I didn't know if I was eager, or simply afraid that I’d lose my nerve or that Mal would change his mind, but we ignored the late hour and went to Sturmhond that night. The privateer greeted our request with his usual good cheer, and Mal and I returned to the deck to wait beneath the mizzenmast. A few minutes later, the captain appeared, a Materialnik in tow. With her hair in braids and yawning like a sleepy child, she didn’t look very impressive, but if Sturmhond said she was his best Fabrikator, I had to take him at his word. Tolya and Tamar trailed behind, carrying lanterns to help the Fabrikator at her work. If we survived whatever came next, everyone aboard the Volkvolny would know about the second amplifier. I didn’t like it, but there was nothing to be done about it. I wouldn't risk something happening to the scales before we had another chance like this again.

“Evening, all,” said Sturmhond, slapping his hands together, seemingly oblivious to our somber mood. “Perfect night for tearing a hole in the universe, no?”

I scowled at him and carefully slipped the scales from my pocket. I’d cleaned them in a bucket of seawater, and they gleamed golden in the lamplight.

“Do you know what to do?” I asked the Fabrikator.

She had me turn and show her the back of the collar. I’d only ever glimpsed it in mirrors, but I knew from feel that the surface was perfect - certainly my fingers had never been able to detect any seam where David had joined the two pieces of antler together.

I handed the scales to Mal, who held one out to the Fabrikator.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked. She was gnawing on her lip so aggressively, I thought she might draw blood.

“Of course not,” said Sturmhond. “Anything worth doing always starts as a bad idea.”

“. . .How does anyone willingly work for you?” I asked the captain.

“I'm a delight. And I pay well.” He smiled. How anyone could be so chipper at this hour, let alone at a time like this, I didn't know. I wanted to toss him over the railing.

The Fabrikator plucked the scale from Mal’s fingers and rested it against my wrist, then held out her hand for another. She bent to her work. I reached out and tugged on Mal's sleeve to bring him closer.

I felt the heat first, radiating from the scales as their edges began to come apart and then re-form. One after another, they melded together, fusing into an overlapping row as the fetter grew around my wrist, iridescent and lined with gold on both edges. The Fabrikator worked in silence, her hands moving infinitesimal degrees. Tolya and Tamar kept the lamps steady, their faces so still and solemn they might have been icons themselves. Even Sturmhond had gone quiet.

Finally, the two ends of the cuff were nearly touching and only one scale remained. Mal stared down at it, cupped in his palm.

“Mal?” I said. It was nearly a whisper, but in the heavy silence it may as well have been a shout.

He didn’t look at me, but touched one finger to the bare skin of my wrist, the place where my pulse beat, where the fetter would close. Then he handed the last scale to the Fabrikator.

In moments, it was done.

Sturmhond peered at the glittering cuff of scales. “Huh,” he murmured. “I thought the end of the world would be more exciting.”

“You might get your wish, yet,” I said seriously. “The boom isn't in the taking, it's in the use. Stand back.”

The group shuffled over to the rail.

“You too,” I told Mal. “I don't know what's going to happen.” Reluctantly, he complied. I saw Privyet peering at us from his place by the wheel. Above, the ropes creaked as the men on watch craned their necks to get a better view.

“You all might want to look away,” I said. No one did.

I took a slow, deep breath. I had to be careful. No heat. Just light, as dim and as gentle as I could make it. I wiped my damp palms on my coat and lifted my hands. Almost before I’d formed the call, the light was rushing toward me. It came from every direction, from a million stars, from a sun still hidden below the horizon, from light reflecting off the ocean and hovering in the air all around us. It came with relentless speed and furious intent, like a mountain hurling toward me.

“Oh, Saints,” I had time to curse. Then the light was blazing through me and the night came apart. The sky exploded into brilliant gold. The surface of the water glittered like a massive diamond, reflecting piercing white shards of sunlight. It went on and on in every direction. Despite my best intentions, the air shimmered with heat.

I closed my eyes against the brightness, trying to focus, to regain control as the power tore through me like a wild storm, snapping off shards of self-control. The last remnants of a fragile voice of reason told me I had to hold on. I heard Baghra’s harsh voice in my head, demanding that I trust my power: _It isn’t some animal that's going to shy away from you when you come close. It will act with as much power and confidence as you feel. Your power serves you because that is its purpose, because it cannot help but serve you. It's the same as your heart beating or your lungs breathing._ But this was like nothing I’d felt before, like nothing I ever could have prepared for.

 _Too much,_ I thought, that last shred of reason beginning to fray under the crushing waves of power. At the same time, all I could think was, _More._

It wasn't gentle and steady like the stag. It was an animal, a creature of infinite fire that breathed with the stag’s strength and the sea whip’s wrath. It coursed through me, stealing my breath, breaking me up and dissolving my edges, until all I knew was light. I felt myself breaking apart, rushing toward a point of no return. And I hungered for it.

My arms were spread wide in welcome, my head tilted back in exultation. I felt the light around me like it was a living thing, brighter, thicker, _more._ My hair and clothing billowed in the growing heat.

From somewhere far away, I heard voices shouting. I didn’t care. I felt alive. I felt real.

“Alina!” Someone shouted from what sounded like a vast distance.

I felt the ship rocking wildly as the sea began to crackle and hiss.

“Alina!” Suddenly Mal’s arms were around me, pulling me back. He held me in a crushing grip, his eyes shut tight against the blaze around us. I felt annoyance at the intrusion, the distraction, the disturbance, and the light burned with wrath, gathering protectively against my skin and lashing out. Mal cried out and released me. I smelled burned flesh, and remembered that I had a nose. Then his arms were back around me, something thick between our skin. He gripped me tight and held on. Now I smelled smoke. I could hear him talking to me, a constant stream, but I couldn't make out the words. Sea salt and sweat came to my nose and, beneath it, his familiar scent—Keramzin, meadow grass, the dark green heart of the woods, what it felt like to be home.

I remembered my arms. Then my legs. Then the press of my ribs as he held me tighter, piecing me back together. I recognized my lips, my teeth, my tongue, my heart, my eyes, and these new things that were also a part of me now: collar and fetter. They were bone and breath, muscle and flesh. They were Alina. They were the Sun Summoner.

_Does the bird feel the weight of its wings?_

I inhaled, felt sense return. I didn’t have to take hold of the power. It clung to me, as if it were grateful to be home. In a single glorious burst, I released the light. The bright sky fractured, letting the night back in, and all around us, sparks fell like fading fireworks, a dream of shining petals blown loose from a thousand flowers. It was everywhere, alive around me even while I wasn't calling it, in the air and the planks of the ship, in the water, in my body and the flesh of the people nearby, waiting only for a thought to return.

I drew the last scraps of light together and wove them into a soft sheen that pulsed over the deck of the ship, only the light around my body remaining. The heat relented. The ship stilled. The boiling sea calmed. I opened my eyes.

Sturmhond and the others were crouched by the railing, holding tight to it, their mouths open in what might have been awe or fear. I had the same feeling of completeness and utter calm as I had when I had seized back Morozova's collar from the Darkling on the Fold and called its power to me for the first time.

Mal had me crushed to his chest, Sturmhond's coat between us, still smoking faintly. His faced was pressed tight to my hair, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

“Mal,” I said quietly, and put a hand on his arm gently. He clutched me tighter. “Mal,” I croaked. He was making it difficult to breathe. “Are you ok?”

Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked down at me. I let the last of the light, a gentle glow around my form, disappear entirely. Only then did he ease his grip.

Tolya re-lit a lamp, and the others got to their feet. Sturmhond dusted off his tunic. The Fabrikator looked like she was going to be sick, but it was harder to read the twins’ faces. Their golden eyes were alight with something I couldn’t name.

“Well, Summoner,” said Sturmhond, a slight wobble to his voice, “you certainly know how to put on a show.”

He took his coat back from Mal, who wouldn't take his eyes off me, and examined it. “Not too badly singed, all told.” He had his usual cheer, though it seemed a little forced, or perhaps strained. “I'd say we can call the evening a success.” What looked like the entire crew seemed to have come up on deck, looking bleary. Most of them had even closed their mouths. Sturmhond called to one, who I recognized as the ship's Healer. The man didn't hesitate, but cast me a look somewhere between wariness and awe before heading over.

“Let me see,” I said quietly to Mal.

“I'm fine, Alina.”

“Show me right now or I'll think I burned you to the bone.”

Reluctantly, he stepped back. I sucked in a sharp breath and my hand flew to my mouth.

Almost the whole front of his shirt was burned away, melted to the flesh in places. The insides of his arms and much of his front were red and raw and blistering. So was a long spot on his jaw. It looked like he had open wounds in places. Any part of him that had touched me looked like it had been in the heart of a fire.

I felt tears well in my eyes.

“It's ok,” he said, the healer already going to work on him. “I'm ok.” His voice was unsteady.

I nodded, not believing him, and not quite able to look him in the eye. I hadn't recognized him. In the rush of power from the fetter, I had thought him only a pest, an annoyance to be burned away. I wasn't sure how I had avoided burning him to ash, and the thought made me sick.

I stood and watched as Mal was healed. It was a slow process. When it was finally done and the Healer had stumbled off blearily to get back to sleep, I made Mal let me examine every inch of exposed skin until I was certain nothing had been missed.

Mal bracketed my face with his hands. He kissed my brow, my nose, my lips, my hair, then drew me tight against him once again.

“You’re all right?” he asked. His voice was rough.

“I. . . . I honestly don't know,” I said, my voice unsteady.

I heard the Darkling, telling me how I would grow further from Mal the more powerful I became. How the differences between us would only grow, and how he would never be able to understand. I thought of how close I'd come to breaking apart in the face of the sea whip's power. These thoughts echoed in me, scraping like claws, planting themselves like barbed hooks.

Most of all, I felt the collar at my throat, the pressure of the fetter at my wrist. My other arm felt naked, exposed.

I was incomplete.  


* * * * * 

 

Sturmhond put his crew to work immediately, and we were well on our way as dawn broke. The light I'd created had stretched farther than we could see, so we couldn’t be sure exactly how far it had gone, but it was likely that I’d given away our location. We needed to move fast.

Every crewman wanted a look at the second amplifier. Some were wary, others just curious, but Mal was the one I was worried about. He watched me constantly the entire day, as if he was afraid that at any moment, I might lose control. I wasn't sure I could blame him. When dusk fell and we went belowdecks, I cornered him in one of the narrow passageways.

“Would you stop watching me like I'm going to turn into a volcra at any moment? I’m fine,” I said. “Really.”

“How do you know?”

“How do you know when you're fine? I just do. I didn't know what to expect, but now I do. I won't lose control like that again.”

“You didn’t see what I saw. It was—”

“It won't happen again," I said firmly. "No one has ever worn two amplifiers. There was no way I really could have been prepared for it. It just. . .got away from me.”

He shook his head. “You were like a stranger, Alina. Beautiful,” he said. “Terrible.”

I looked at him for a long moment, my eyes soft. “It's part of me now. Like the collar. Like my lungs or my heart.”

“Your heart,” he said flatly.

I took his hand in mine and pressed it against my chest. “You're right. That one is only yours.”

I lifted my other hand and cast a soft tide of sunlight over his face. He flinched. It felt like a knife in my chest. Mal had trusted my light our entire lives. _He can never understand your power, and if he does, he will only come to fear you._ I pushed the Darkling’s voice from my mind. Mal had every right to be afraid.

“I can do this,” I said gently. “I'm still me.”

He shut his eyes and turned his face toward the sunlight that radiated from my hand. Then he tilted his head, resting his cheek against my palm. The light glowed warm against his skin.

We stood that way, in silence, until the watch bell rang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler in the comments


	8. Hummingbird

The winds warmed and the waters turned from black to gray to blue as the Volkvolny carried us southeast to Ravka. Sturmhond’s crew was made up of sailors and rogue Grisha who worked together to keep the ship running smoothly. Despite the stories that had spread about the power of the second amplifier, they didn’t pay Mal or me much attention, though they occasionally came to watch me practice at the schooner’s stern. I was infinitely careful, never pushing too hard, always summoning at noon, when the sun was high in the sky and there was no chance of my efforts being spotted, so long as nothing like the explosion from that first night happened again. I couldn't practice anything interesting, because Mal and I still wanted to keep most of what I could do secret, but I could see what this new me could do and reassure him that the power was under my control. In that respect, it was as if the near thing that first night had never happened. Mal was still wary, but I’d spoken the truth: The sea whip’s power was a part of me now. It thrilled me. It buoyed me. I had no more reason to fear it than I did my lungs or my legs.

I was fascinated by the rogues. They all had different stories. One had an aunt who had spirited him away rather than let him be turned over to the Darkling. Another had deserted the Second Army. A third had been hidden in a root cellar when the Grisha Examiners arrived to test her.

“My mother told them I’d been killed by the fever that had swept through our village the previous spring,” the Tidemaker said. “The neighbors cut my hair and passed me off as their dead otkazat’sya son until I was old enough to leave.”

Tolya and Tamar’s mother had been a Grisha stationed on Ravka’s southern border when she met their father, a Shu Han mercenary.

“When she died,” Tamar explained, “she made my father promise not to let us be drafted into the Second Army. We left for Novyi Zem the next day.”

Most rogue Grisha ended up in Novyi Zem. Aside from Ravka, it was the only place where they didn’t have to fear being experimented on by Shu doctors or burned by Fjerdan witchhunters. Even so, they had to be cautious about displaying their power. Grisha were valued slaves, and less scrupulous Kerch traders were known to round them up and sell them in secret auctions.

These were the very threats that had led so many Grisha to take refuge in Ravka and join the Second Army in the first place. But the rogues thought differently. For them, a life spent looking over their shoulders and moving from one place to the next to avoid discovery was preferable to a life in service to the Darkling and the Ravkan King. It was a choice I understood. Had I not been able to use my power invisibly, I may have led the very same sort of life.

After a few monotonous days on the schooner, Mal and I asked Tamar if she would show us some Zemeni combat techniques. It helped ease the tedium of shipboard life and the awful anxiety of returning to Ravka.

Sturmhond’s crew confirmed the disturbing rumors we’d picked up in Novyi Zem. Crossings of the Fold had all but ceased, and refugees were fleeing its expanding shores. The First Army was close to revolt, and the Second Army was in tatters. I was most frightened by the news that the Apparat’s cult of the Sun Saint was growing. No one knew how he’d managed to escape the Grand Palace after the Darkling’s failed coup, but he had resurfaced somewhere in the network of monasteries spread across Ravka.

He was circulating the story that I’d died on the Fold and been resurrected as a Saint. Part of me wanted to laugh, but turning through the bloody pages of the Istorii Sankt’ya late at night, I couldn’t summon so much as a chuckle. I remembered the Apparat’s smell, that unpleasant combination of incense and mildew, and pulled my coat tighter around me. He had given me the red book. I wanted to know why.

Despite the bruises and bumps, my practices with Tamar helped to dull the edge of my constant worry. I hadn't been able to really push myself in that way since I'd last trained with Botkin before fleeing the Little Palace. Girls were drafted right along with boys into the King’s Army when they came of age, so I’d seen plenty of girls fight and had trained alongside them. But I’d never seen anyone, male or female, fight the way Tamar did. She had a dancer’s grace and a seemingly unerring instinct for what her opponent would do next. Her weapons of choice were two double-bit axes that she wielded in tandem, the blades flashing like light off water, but she was nearly as dangerous with a saber, a pistol, or her bare hands. Only Tolya could match her, and when they sparred, all the crew stopped to watch.

The giant spoke little and spent most of his time working the lines or standing around looking intimidating. But occasionally, he stepped in to help with our lessons. He wasn’t much of a teacher. “Move faster” was about all we could get out of him. Tamar was a far better instructor, but my lessons got less challenging after Sturmhond caught us practicing on the foredeck.

“Tamar,” Sturmhond chided, “please don’t damage the cargo.”

Immediately, Tamar snapped to attention and gave a crisp, “Da, kapitan.”

I shot him a sour look. “I’m not a package, Sturmhond.”

“More’s the pity,” he said, sauntering past. “Packages don’t talk, and they stay where you put them.”

But when Tamar started us on rapiers and sabers, even Sturmhond joined in. Mal improved daily, though Sturmhond still beat him easily every time. And yet, Mal didn’t seem to mind. He took his thumpings with a kind of good humor that put me to shame. Losing too much made me irritable; Mal just laughed it all off.

“How did you and Tolya learn to use your powers?” I asked Tamar one afternoon as we watched Mal and Sturmhond sparring with dulled swords on deck. She’d found me a marlinspike, and when she wasn’t pummeling me, she was trying to teach me knots and splices.

“Keep your elbows in!” Sturmhond berated Mal. “Stop flapping them like some kind of chicken.”

Mal let out a disturbingly convincing cluck.

Tamar raised a brow. “Your friend seems to be enjoying himself.”

I smiled warmly as I watched him. “He's always been like that. You could drop him in a camp full of Fjerdan assassins, and he’d come out carried on their shoulders. He just blooms wherever he’s planted.”

“And you?”

“I’m more of a weed,” I said drily.

Tamar grinned. In combat, she was cold and silent fire, but when she wasn’t fighting, her smiles came easily. “I like weeds,” she said, pushing herself off from the railing and gathering her scattered lengths of rope. “They’re survivors.”

I caught myself returning her smile and quickly went back to working on the knot that I was trying to tie. The problem was that I liked being aboard Sturmhond’s ship. I liked Tolya and Tamar and the rest of the crew. I liked sitting at meals with them, and the sound of Privyet’s lilting tenor. I liked the afternoons when we took target practice, lining up empty wine bottles to shoot off the fantail, and making harmless wagers.

It was a bit like being at the Little Palace, but with none of the cliques or messy politics or constant, stuffy jockeying for status. The crew had an easy, open way with each other. They were all young (except for one man who looked far too ancient to be a sailor, but moved faster than the people half his age), and poor, and had spent most of their lives in hiding. On this ship, they’d found a home, and they welcomed Mal and me into it with little fuss.

I didn’t know what was waiting for us in West Ravka, and I felt fairly sure it was madness to be going back at all when we were still so unprepared. But aboard the Volkvolny, with the wind blowing and the white canvas cutting crisp lines across a broad blue sky, I could forget the future and my fear. I could almost imagine staying in such a place.

And I had to admit, I liked Sturmhond, too. He was cocky and brash, and always used ten words when two would do, but he was obviously clever, and I was impressed with the way he led his crew. He didn’t bother with any of the tricks I’d seen the Darkling employ, yet they followed him without hesitation. He had their respect, not their fear.

“What’s Sturmhond’s real name?” I asked Tamar. “His Ravkan name?”

“No idea.”

“You’ve never asked?”

“Why would I?”

“Ok, but where in Ravka is he from?”

She squinted up at the sky. “Do you want to go another round with sabers?” she asked. “We should have time before my watch starts.”

She always changed the subject when I brought up Sturmhond. “You're very bad at tactful subject changes, you know. He didn’t just drop out of the sky onto a ship, Tamar. Don’t you care where he came from?”

She picked up the swords and handed them over to Tolya, who served as the ship’s Master of Arms. “Not particularly. He lets us sail, and he lets us fight.”

“And he doesn’t make us dress up in red silk and play lapdog,” said Tolya, unlocking the rack with the key he wore around his thick neck.

“A sorry lapdog you’d make.” Tamar laughed.

“Anything’s better than following orders from some puffed-up cully in black,” Tolya grumbled.

“You follow Sturmhond’s orders,” I pointed out.

“Only when he feels like it.”

I jumped. Sturmhond was standing right behind me.

“You try telling that ox what to do and see what happens,” the privateer said.

Tamar snorted, and she and Tolya began stowing the rest of the weapons.

Sturmhond leaned in and murmured, “If you want to know something about me, lovely, all you need to do is ask.”

“I was just wondering where you’re from,” I said defensively. “That’s all. I wasn't after state secrets. You don't answer questions well.”

“Where are _you_ from?”

“This is why I don't ask you.”

“Humor me.”

“. . .Keramzin. You know that.”

“But where are you _from?”_

A few dim memories flashed through my mind. A shallow dish of cooked beets, the slippery feel of them between my fingers as they stained my hands red. The smell of egg porridge. Riding on someone’s shoulders—maybe my father’s—down a dusty road. At Keramzin, even mentioning our parents had been considered a betrayal of the Duke’s kindness and a sign of ingratitude. We’d been taught never to speak of our lives before we arrived at the estate, and eventually most of the memories just disappeared.

“Nowhere,” I said. “The village I was born in was too small to be worth a name. For all I know, it's not even there anymore. Now, what about you, Sturmhond? Where do you come from?”

The privateer grinned. Again I was struck by the thought that there was something off about his features.

“My mother was an oyster,” he said with a wink. “And I’m the pearl.”

He strolled away, whistling an off-key tune, either unaware or unconcerned by how much I wanted to throw something at him.

 

 * * * * *

  
Two nights later, I woke to find Tamar leaning over me, shaking my good shoulder.

“Time to go,” she said.

“Now?” I asked blearily. “What time is it?”

“Coming on three bells.”

“In the morning?” I creaked. I yawned and threw my legs over the side of my hammock. “Where are we?”

“Fifteen miles off the coast of West Ravka. Come on, Sturmhond is waiting.” She was dressed and had her canvas ditty bag slung over her shoulder.

I had no belongings to gather, so I pulled on my boots, patted the inner pocket of my coat to make sure I had the red book, and followed her out the door.

On deck, Mal stood by the ship’s starboard rail with a small group of crewmen. I had a moment of confusion when I realized Privyet was wearing Sturmhond’s garish teal frock coat. Miraculously, I hadn't burned any holes through it, and all of the singeing was on the inside. I wouldn’t have recognized Sturmhond himself if he hadn’t been giving orders. He was swaddled in a voluminous greatcoat, the collar turned up, a wool hat pulled low over his ears.

A cold wind was blowing. The stars were bright in the sky, and a sickle moon sat low on the horizon. I peered across the moonlit waves, listening to the steady hush of the sea. I couldn't see land.

Mal tried to rub some warmth into my arms.

“Oh, Saints love you,” I effused. “What’s happening?”

“We’re going ashore.” I could hear the wariness in his voice.

“In the middle of the night?”

“The Volkvolny will raise my colors near the Fjerdan coast,” said Sturmhond. “The Darkling doesn’t need to know that you’re back on Ravkan soil just yet.”

As Sturmhond bent his head in conversation with Privyet, Mal drew me over to the portside rail. “Are you sure about this?”

“Not at all,” I said honestly. “But we can hardly go back the way we came. Not until we meet with his client, anyway.”

He rested his hands on my shoulders, carefully avoiding my wound, and said, “There’s a good chance I’ll be arrested if we’re found, Alina. You may be the Sun Summoner, but I’m just a soldier who defied orders.”

“The Darkling’s orders.”

“That may not matter.”

“I’ll make it matter,” I said fiercely. “No one is going to touch you unless they go through me. And if they even want to think of asking for my help, they'll give you a Saints-blasted medal for what you did. Besides, we’re not going to be found. We’re going to get into West Ravka, meet Sturmhond’s client, and decide what we want to do.”

Mal pulled me closer. “Were you always this much trouble?”

I pretended to think. “Maybe not this quite this much. Although to be fair, you did tend to be a little too. . .'busy' to get in on the really fun things. And I like to think of myself as endearingly complex, thank you.”

As he bent to kiss me, Sturmhond’s voice cut through the dark. “Can we get to the cuddling later? I want us ashore before dawn.”

I turned my face and leveled a look at him that would have quailed a lesser man.

Mal sighed. “Eventually, I’m going to punch him.”

“I will support you in that endeavor. Especially if I get a turn after.”

He took my hand, and we returned to the group.

Sturmhond gave Privyet an envelope sealed with a blob of pale blue wax, then clapped him on the back. Maybe it was the moonlight, but the first mate looked like he might cry. Tolya and Tamar slipped over the railing, holding tight to the weighted ladder secured to the schooner.

I peered over the side. I’d expected to see an ordinary longboat, so I was surprised at the little craft I saw bobbing alongside the Volkvolny. It was like no boat I’d ever seen. Its two hulls looked like a pair of hollowed-out shoes, and they were held together by a deck with a giant hole in its center. Where had he been keeping the thing?

Mal and I followed, stepping gingerly onto one of the craft’s curved hulls. We picked our way across it and descended to the central deck, where a sunken cockpit was nestled between two masts. Sturmhond leapt down after us, then swung up onto a raised platform behind the cockpit and took his place at the ship’s wheel.

“What is this thing?” I asked.

“I call her the Hummingbird,” he said, consulting some kind of chart that I couldn’t see, “though I’m thinking of renaming her the Firebird.” I nearly choked, but Sturmhond just grinned and ordered, “Cut anchor and release!”

I cursed at him under my breath as Mal gave my back a rub and a pat.

Tamar and Tolya unhitched the knots of the grapples that held us to the Volkvolny. I saw the anchor line slither like a live snake over the Hummingbird’s stern, the end slipping silently into the sea. I would have thought we’d need an anchor when we made port, but I supposed Sturmhond knew what he was doing.

“Make sail,” called Sturmhond.

The sails unfurled. Though the Hummingbird’s masts were considerably shorter than those aboard the schooner, its double sails were huge, rectangular things, and required two crewmen each to maneuver them into position.

A light breeze caught the canvas, and we pulled farther from the Volkvolny. I looked up and saw Sturmhond watching the schooner slip away. I couldn’t see his face, but I had the distinct sense that he was saying goodbye. He shook himself, then called out, “Squallers!”

A Grisha was positioned in each hull. They raised their arms, and wind billowed around us, filling the sails. Sturmhond adjusted our course and called for more speed. The Squallers obliged, and the strange little boat leapt forward.

“Take these,” said Sturmhond. He dropped a pair of goggles into my lap and tossed another pair to Mal. They looked similar to those worn by Fabrikators in the workshops of the Little Palace. I glanced around. All of the crew seemed to be wearing them, along with Sturmhond. We pulled them over our heads.

I was grateful for them seconds later, when Sturmhond called for yet more speed. The sails rattled in the rigging above us, and I felt a twinge of nervousness. Why was he in such a hurry?

The Hummingbird sped over the water, its shallow double hulls skating from wave to wave, slapping the water each time, barely seeming to touch the surface of the sea. I held tight to my seat, my stomach floating upward with every jounce.

“All right, Squallers,” commanded Sturmhond, “take us up. Sailors to wings, on my count.”

I turned to Mal. “What does that mean, ‘take us up’?”

“Five!” shouted Sturmhond.

The crewmen started to move counterclockwise, pulling on the lines.

“Four!”

The Squallers spread their hands wider.

“Mal?” I was growing increasingly uneasy.

“Three!”

A boom lifted between the two masts, the sails gliding along its length.

“Two!”

“Heave!” cried the sailors. The Squallers lifted their arms in a massive swoop.

“One!” yelled Sturmhond.

The sails billowed up and out, snapping into place high above the deck like two gigantic wings. My stomach lurched, and the unthinkable happened: The Hummingbird took flight.

I gripped my seat, a strangled sort of cry dying in my throat, mumbling old prayers under my breath and squeezing my eyes shut as the wind buffeted my face and we rose into the night sky.

Sturmhond was laughing like a loon. The Squallers were calling out to each other in a volley, making sure they kept the updraft steady. I thought my heart would pound right through my chest.

 _Oh, Saints,_ I thought queasily. _Please, please let this be a horrible dream._

“Alina,” Mal yelled over the rush of the wind.

“What?” I forced the word through tightly clenched lips.

“Alina, open your eyes. You’ve got to see this!”

I gave a terse shake of my head.

Mal’s hand slid into mine, taking hold of my frozen fingers. “Just try it.”

I took a trembling breath and forced my lids open, first one, then the other. We were surrounded by stars. Above us, white canvas stretched in two broad arcs, like the taut curves of an archer’s bow.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself from craning my neck over the cockpit’s edge. The roar of the wind was deafening. Below—far below—the moonlit waves rippled like the bright scales of a slow-moving serpent. It was breathtaking and beautiful and I knew that if we fell, we would shatter on its back.

A little laugh, somewhere between elation and hysteria, burbled out of me. We were flying. _Flying._

Mal squeezed my hand and gave an exultant shout.

“This is impossible!” I yelled.

Sturmhond whooped. “When people say impossible, they usually mean improbable.” With the moonlight gleaming off the lenses of his goggles and his greatcoat billowing around him, he looked like a complete madman.

I tried to breathe. The wind was holding steady. The Squallers and the crew seemed focused, but calm. Slowly, very slowly, the knot in my chest loosened, and I began to relax.

“Where did this thing come from?” I shouted up to Sturmhond.

“I designed her. I built her. And I crashed a few prototypes.”

I swallowed hard. _Crash_ was the last word I wanted to hear.

“And this isn't one of those prototypes, right?”

“Invention is always a work in progress.”

Mal leaned over the lip of the cockpit, trying to get a better view of the gigantic guns positioned at the foremost points of the hulls.

“Those guns,” he said. “They have multiple barrels.”

“And they’re gravity fed. No need to stop to reload. They fire two hundred rounds per minute.”

“That’s—”

“Impossible? The only problem is overheating, but it isn’t so bad on this model. I have a Zemeni gunsmith trying to work out the flaws. Barbaric little bastards, but they know their way around a gun. The aft seats rotate so you can shoot from any angle.”

“And fire down on the enemy,” Mal shouted almost giddily. “If Ravka had a fleet of these—”

“Quite an advantage, no? But the First and Second Armies would have to work together.”

I thought of what the Darkling had said to me so long ago. _The age of Grisha power is coming to an end._ His answer had been to turn the Fold into a weapon. But what if Grisha power could be transformed by men like Sturmhond? I looked over the deck of the Hummingbird, at the sailors and Squallers working side by side, at Tolya and Tamar seated behind those frightening guns. It wasn’t impossible. I found myself with a new respect for the captain.

 _He’s a privateer,_ I reminded myself. _And he’d stoop to war profiteer in a second._ Sturmhond’s weapons could give Ravka an advantage, but those guns could just as easily be used by Ravka’s enemies.

I was pulled from my thoughts by a bright light shining off the port bow. The great lighthouse at Alkhem Bay, which lay off the coast of Os Kervo. We were close now. If I craned my neck, I could just make out the glittering towers of the city's harbor behind it. The speed at which we must be traveling to have covered so much distance in such a short a time was staggering. But if Sturmhond had known how quickly we could get here, why had he rushed us to leave so early? There must still be an hour before dawn, maybe two.

Sturmhond did not make directly for Os Kervo but tacked southwest, away from it. I assumed we’d set down somewhere offshore. The thought of landing made me queasy. I decided I would to keep my eyes shut for that, no matter what Mal said.

Soon I lost sight of the lighthouse beam. Just how far south did Sturmhond intend to take us? Did he think traveling across land during the day would be smarter than landing close to the city?

My thoughts drifted, lost to the stars around us and the clouds scudding across the wide sky. The night wind bit into my cheeks, tried to steal away every breath I took, and seemed to cut right through the thin fabric of my coat.

I glanced down and gulped back a cry, my hands tightening on the hull. We weren’t over the water anymore. We were over land—solid, unforgiving land.

I tugged on Mal’s sleeve and gestured frantically to the countryside below us, painted in moonlit shades of black and silver.

“Sturmhond!” I shouted in a panic. “What are you doing?”

“You said you were taking us to Os Kervo—” Mal yelled.

“I said I was taking you to meet my client.”

“In Os Kervo!," I wailed. "But forget that for the moment. Where are we going to land?”

“Not to worry,” said Sturmhond. “I have a lovely little lake in mind.”

“How little?” I squeaked. But then I saw that Mal was climbing out of the cockpit, his face furious. “Mal, sit down!”

“You lying, thieving—”

“I’d stay where you are. I don’t think you want to be jostling around when we enter the Fold.”

Mal froze. I froze. Sturmhond began to whistle that same off-key little tune. It was snatched away by the wind.

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

“Not on a regular basis, no,” said Sturmhond. “There’s a rifle secured beneath your seat, Oretsev. You may want to grab it. Just in case.”

“You can’t take this thing into the Fold!” Mal bellowed.

“Why not? From what I understand, I’m traveling with the one person who can guarantee safe passage.”

“But will she?” I clenched my fists, rage suddenly driving fear from my mind. “You may have heard, we don't tend to have good experiences in the Shadow Fold! Maybe I’ll just let the volcra have you and your crew for an early breakfast!”

Sturmhond kept one hand on the wheel and consulted his timepiece. “You make a fine point! We really are behind schedule. But,” he said, “it’s a long way down. Even for a Sun Summoner. And judging from how you took to the Hummingbird's takeoff, I'd wager that flying isn't among your Saintly powers.”

I glanced at Mal and knew his fury must be mirrored on my own face.

The landscape was unrolling beneath us at a terrifying pace. I stood up carefully, trying to get a sense for where we were.

I swore.

Behind us lay stars, moonlight, the living world. Ahead of us, there was nothing. Ahead of us was blank, dark void. He was really going to do it. He was taking us into the Fold.

“Gunners, at your stations,” Sturmhond called. “Squallers, hold steady.”

“Sturmhond!” I shouted. “I’m going to kill you! Turn this thing around right now!”

“Wish I could oblige. I’m afraid if you want to kill me, you’ll just have to wait until we land. Ready?”

“No!” I bellowed.

But the next moment, we were in darkness. It was like no night ever known—a perfect, deep, unnatural blackness that seemed to close around us in a suffocating grip. We were in the Fold.


	9. It Gets Easier

The moment we entered the Unsea, I knew something had changed.

Hurriedly, I braced my feet against the deck and threw up my hands, casting a wide golden sphere of sunlight around the Hummingbird and cursing a litany under my breath. As angry as I was with Sturmhond, I wasn’t going to let a flock of volcra bring us down only to prove a point.

With the power of both amplifiers, I barely had to think to summon the light, even in this swath of nothingness. I tested its edges carefully, sensing none of the wild disruption that had overcome me the first time I’d used the fetter. But something was very wrong. _It's the Fold,_ I realized. The Fold felt different. I told myself I must be wrong, but it seemed like the darkness had a texture. I could practically feel it moving over my skin. The edges of the wound at my shoulder itched and pulled, as if the flesh were restless.

“Mal, do you feel that?” I asked in the deep quiet.

“I don't feel anything other than wind and the desire to murder Sturmhond. Why? Are you ok?”

I nodded.

I’d been on the Unsea twice before, and both times I’d felt like a stranger, like a vulnerable interloper in a dangerous, unnatural world that did not want me there. But now it was as if the Fold was reaching out to me, welcoming me like I belonged. I knew it made no sense. The Fold was a dead and empty place, not a living thing.

Then a thought dawned, rushing through me with the power of a revelation: _It knows me._ How?

I cleared my head and thrust the light out farther, casting a brighter glow with it, letting the power shimmer around me, warm and reassuring. This was what I was. Light. Not the darkness.

“They’re coming,” Mal said beside me. “Listen.”

Over the rush of the wind, I heard a cry echo through the Fold, and then the steady pounding of volcra wings. They’d found us quickly, drawn by the light and the smell of human prey.

Their wings beat the air around the sphere I’d created, pushing the darkness back at us in fluttering ripples. With crossings of the Fold at a standstill, they’d been too long without food. Hunger made them bold.

I spread my arms, letting the light bloom still brighter, driving them back.

“No,” said Sturmhond. “Bring them closer.”

“What? Why?” I asked. The volcra were pure predators. They weren’t to be toyed with.

“They hunt us,” he said, raising his voice so everyone could hear him. “Maybe it’s time we hunted them.”

A warlike whoop went up from the crew, followed by a series of barks and howls.

An uneasy feeling rippled through me.

“Pull back the light,” Sturmhond told me.

“He’s out of his mind,” I said to Mal. “Tell him he’s out of his mind.”

But Mal hesitated. “Well…”

“Well what?” I asked, incredulously. “In case you’ve forgotten, every time we come here those things try to eat one of us!”

He shrugged, and a grin touched his lips. “Maybe that’s why I’d like to see what those guns can do.”

I shook my head. I didn’t like this. Any of it.

“Just for a moment,” pressed Sturmhond. “Indulge me.”

Indulge him. Like he was asking for another slice of cake.

The crew was waiting. Tolya and Tamar were hunched over the protruding barrels of their guns. They looked like leather-backed insects.

“I'll indulge _him,”_ I said stiffly, tipping my head toward Mal. “But when this goes horribly wrong, which it will because _we are on the Shadow Fold,_ don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Mal lifted his rifle to his shoulder.

“Here we go,” I muttered. I curled my fingers, and the sphere of light contracted, shrinking into a tight ball around the ship.

The volcra shrieked in excitement.

“All the way!” commanded Sturmhond.

I gritted my teeth, then did as he asked. The light winked out, and the Fold went dark.

I heard the beating of many wings. The volcra dove.

“Now, Alina!” Sturmhond shouted. “Throw it wide!”

I cast the light out in a blazing sphere all around the Hummingbird. It showed the horror surrounding us in the unforgiving light of a noonday sun. There were volcra everywhere in the air around the ship, a mass of gray, winged, writhing bodies, milky, sightless eyes, and jaws crowded with teeth. There were so many of them they formed a solid, living wall in places. Their resemblance to the nichevo’ya was unmistakable, and yet they were so much more grotesque, so much more clumsy and weak.

“Fire!” Sturmhond cried.

Tolya and Tamar opened fire. It was a sound like I’d never heard, a relentless, skull-shattering thunder that shook the air around us and rattled my bones.

It was a massacre. The volcra plummeted from the skies around us, chests blown open, wings torn from their bodies, thick as leaves falling from trees in the heart of autumn. The spent cartridges pinged to the deck of the ship. The sharp burn of gunpowder filled the air.

Two hundred rounds per minute. So this was what a modern army could do.

The monsters didn’t seem to know what was happening. They whirled and beat the air, driven into a tizzy of bloodlust, hunger, and fear, tearing at each other in their confusion and desire to escape. Their screams. . . . Baghra had told me the volcra’s ancestors were human. I could have sworn I heard it in their cries.

The gunfire died away. My ears rang. I looked up and saw smears of black blood and bits of flesh on the canvas sails. A cold sweat had broken out over my brow. I thought I might be ill.

The quiet lasted only moments before Tolya threw back his head and gave a triumphant howl. The rest of the crew joined in, barking and yapping. I wanted to scream at all of them to shut up.

“Do you think we can draw another flock?” one of the Squallers asked.

“Maybe,” Sturmhond said. “But we should probably head east. It’s almost dawn, and I don’t want us to be spotted.”

_Yes,_ I thought. _Head east. Get us out of here._ My hands shook.

Mal gave me a surreptitious look at the mention of getting spotted. I shook my head minutely. I had no interest in helping this last longer, and even if I had, I saw no reason Sturmhond should know what I could do.

The wound at my shoulder burned and throbbed. What was wrong with me? Had the Darkling done this to me? The volcra were monsters. They would have torn us apart without a thought. I knew that. And yet, I could still hear their cries and they cut almost as deeply as those of the people in Novokribirsk as it was swallowed.

“There are more of them,” Mal said suddenly. “A lot more.”

“How do you know?” asked Sturmhond.

“I just do.”

Sturmhond hesitated. Between the goggles, his hat, and the high collar, it was impossible to read his expression. “Where?” he said finally.

“Just a little north,” Mal said. “That way.” He pointed into the dark, and I had the urge to slap his hand. Just because he could track the volcra didn’t mean he had to.

Sturmhond called the bearing. My heart sank, and I closed my eyes briefly against the feeling.

The Hummingbird dipped its wings and turned as Mal called out directions and Sturmhond corrected our course. I tried to focus on the light, on the comforting presence of my power, tried to ignore the sick feeling in my gut.

Sturmhond took us lower. My light shimmered over the Fold’s colorless sand and touched the shadowy bulk of a wrecked sandskiff.

A tremor passed through me as we drew closer. The skiff had been broken in half. One of its masts had snapped in two, and I could just make out the remnants of three ragged black sails. Mal had led us to the ruins of the Darkling’s skiff.

The little bit of calm I’d managed to pull together vanished. “No,” I whispered, too hoarse for anyone to hear. “No, not here.”

The Hummingbird sank lower. Our shadow passed over the splintered deck.

I felt the tiniest bit of relief. Illogical as it was, I’d expected to see the bodies of the people I’d left behind spread out on the deck, the skeletons of the King’s emissary and the Grisha and foreign ambassadors huddled in a corner. But of course they were long gone, food for the volcra, their bones scattered over the barren reaches of the Fold.

The Hummingbird banked starboard. My light pierced the murky depths of the broken hull. The screams began.

“Saints,” Mal swore, and raised his rifle.

Three large volcra cringed beneath the skiff’s hull, their backs to us, their wings spread wide. But it was what they were trying to shield with their bodies that sent a spike of fear and revulsion quaking through me: a sea of wriggling, twisted shapes, tiny, glistening arms, little backs split by the transparent membranes of barely formed wings. They mewled and whimpered, climbing over each other, trying to get away from the light.

We’d uncovered a nest.

The crew had gone silent. There was no barking or yapping now.

Sturmhond brought the ship around in another low arc. Then he shouted, “Tolya, Tamar, grenatki.”

The twins rolled out two cast-iron shells and hefted them to the edge of the rail.

Another wave of dread washed over me, nearly overpowering. _They’re volcra,_ I reminded myself firmly. _Look at them. They’re monsters._

“Squallers, on my signal,” Sturmhond said grimly. “Fuses!” he shouted, then “Gunners, drop heavy!”

The instant the shells were released, Sturmhond roared, “Now!” and cut the ship’s wheel hard to the right.

The Squallers threw up their arms, and the Hummingbird shot skyward.

A silent second passed, then a massive boom sounded beneath us. The heat and force of the explosion struck the Hummingbird in a powerful gust. “Steady!” Sturmhond bellowed.

The little craft foundered wildly, swinging like a pendulum beneath its canvas wings. Mal planted a hand to either side of me, shielding my body with his as I fought to keep my balance and hold the light alive around us. I was shaking hard.

Finally, the ship stopped swaying and settled into a smooth arc, tracing a wide circle high above the burning wreckage of the skiff.

The air stank of charred flesh. My lungs felt singed, and each breath seared my chest. Sturmhond’s crew were howling and barking again. Mal joined in, raising his rifle in the air in triumph. Above the cheering, I could hear the volcra’s screams, helpless and human to my ears, the keening of mothers mourning their young.

I closed my eyes. It was all I could do to keep from clamping my hands to my ears and crumpling to the deck.

“Enough,” I tried to say, but I couldn't get my voice above a whisper. No one seemed to hear me. I tried again. “Please,” I begged, my voice unsteady. “Mal—”

“You’ve become quite the killer, Alina.”

That cool voice. My eyes flew open.

The Darkling stood before me, his black kefta rippling over the Hummingbird’s deck. I gasped and jumped out of my seat, stepping back. I cast my eyes wildly around me, but no one had seen him yet. They were whooping and shouting, gazing down at the flames.

“Don’t worry,” the Darkling said gently. “It gets easier with time. Here, I’ll show you.”

He slid a knife from the sleeve of his kefta, and before I could cry out, he slashed toward my face. I threw my hands up to defend myself, a scream tearing loose from my throat. The light vanished, and the ship was plunged into darkness. I fell to my knees, huddling on the deck, ready to feel the piercing sting of Grisha steel.

It didn’t come. People were yelling in the darkness around me. I tried again and again to get a bloom of light up to see the Darkling, but I was too shaken. Sturmhond was shouting my name. I heard the echoing shriek of a volcra. Close. Too close.

Someone howled in agony, and the ship listed sharply. I heard the thump of boots as the crew scrambled to keep their footing.

“Alina!” Mal’s voice this time.

I felt him fumbling toward me in the dark. Some bit of sense returned. His hands found me and I threw the light back up in a shining cascade, bright and thick, heavy and massive. My eyes swept the ship, but the Darkling was nowhere to be found.

The volcra that had descended upon us yowled and wheeled back toward the darkness, distant though it was, but one of the Squallers lay bleeding on the deck, his arm nearly torn from its socket. The sail above him flapped uselessly. The Hummingbird tilted, listing hard to starboard, rapidly losing altitude.

“Tamar, help him!” Sturmhond ordered, but she and Tolya were already scrambling over the hulls toward the downed Squaller.

The other Squaller had both hands raised, her face rigid with strain as she tried to summon a strong enough current to keep us aloft. The ship bobbled and wavered. Sturmhond held fast to the wheel, yelling orders to the crewmen working the sails.

My heart hammered. My eyes swept continuously over the deck, frantic, torn between terror and confusion. I’d seen the Darkling. I’d seen him.

“Are you all right?” Mal was asking beside me. “Are you hurt?”

I couldn’t look at him. I couldn't speak. I shook so badly that I thought I might fly apart. I focused all my effort on keeping the light blazing around us.

“Is she injured?” shouted Sturmhond.

“Just get us out of here!” Mal replied.

“Oh, is that what I should be trying to do?” Sturmhond barked back.

The volcra were shrieking and whirling, beating at the circle of light in the distance. Monsters they might be, but I wondered if they understood vengeance. The Hummingbird rocked and shuddered. I looked down and saw gray sands rushing up to meet us.

And then suddenly we were out of the darkness, bursting through the last black wisps of the Fold as we shot into the blue light of early dawn. I let the light collapse and fell heavily to the deck. I couldn't have made us invisible now even if I had wanted to.

The ground loomed terrifyingly close beneath us.

I took desperate hold of the cockpit’s rail. I could see a long stretch of road, a town’s lights glowing in the distance, and there, beyond a low rise of hills, a slender blue lake, morning light glinting off its surface.

“Just a little farther!” cried Sturmhond.

The Squaller let out a sob of effort, her arms trembling. The sails dipped. The Hummingbird continued to fall. Branches scraped the hull as we skimmed the treetops.

“Everyone get low and hold on tight!” shouted Sturmhond. Mal and I hunkered down into the cockpit, arms and legs braced against the sides, hands clasped. The little ship rattled and shook.

_We're not going to make it._ “Mal,” I rasped.

He said nothing, just squeezed my fingers tighter.

“Get ready!” Sturmhond roared.

At the last second, he hurled himself into the cockpit in a tangle of limbs. He just had time to say, “This is cozy,” before we struck land with a bone-shattering jolt.

Mal and I were thrown into the nose of the cockpit as the ship tore into the ground, clattering and banging, its hull splintering apart. There was a loud splash, and suddenly we were skimming across the water. I heard a terrible wrenching sound and knew that one of the hulls had broken free. We bounced roughly over the surface and then, miraculously, shuddered to a halt.

I tried to get my bearings. I was on my back, pressed up against the side of the cockpit. Someone was breathing hard beside me.

I shifted gingerly. I’d taken a hard knock to the head and cut open both of my palms, but I seemed to be in one piece.

Water was flooding in through the cockpit’s floor. I heard splashing, people calling to one another.

“Mal?” I ventured, my voice a quavery squeak.

“I’m okay,” he replied. He was somewhere to my left. “We need to get out of here. Can you swim on your own?”

I nodded and peered around, but Sturmhond was nowhere to be seen.

As we clambered out of the cockpit, the broken ship began to tilt alarmingly. We heard a creaking sigh, and one of the masts gave way, collapsing into the lake beneath the weight of its sails.

We threw ourselves into the water, kicking hard as the lake tried to swallow us along with the ship.

One of the crewmen was tangled in the ropes. Mal dove down to help extricate him, and I nearly wept with relief when they both broke the surface.

I saw Tolya and Tamar paddling free, followed by the other crewmen. Tolya had the wounded Squaller in tow. Sturmhond swam behind, supporting an unconscious sailor beneath his arm. We made for the shore.

My bruised limbs felt heavy, weighted down by my sodden clothes, but finally we reached the shallows. We hauled ourselves out of the water, slogging through patches of slimy reeds, and threw our bodies down on the wide crescent of beach.

I lay there panting, listening to the oddly ordinary sounds of early morning: crickets in the grass, birds calling from somewhere in the woods, a frog’s low, tentative croak. Tolya was ministering to the injured Squaller, finishing the business of healing his arm, instructing him to flex his fingers, bend his elbow. I heard Sturmhond come ashore and hand the last sailor into Tamar’s care.

“He’s not breathing,” Sturmhond said, “and I don’t feel a pulse.”

I forced myself to sit up. The sun was rising behind us, warming my back, gilding the lake and the edges of the trees. Tamar had her hands pressed to the sailor’s chest, using her power to draw the water from his lungs and drive life back into his heart. The minutes seemed to stretch as the sailor lay motionless on the sand. Then he gasped. His eyes fluttered open, and he spewed lake water over his shirt.

I heaved a sigh of relief. One less death on my conscience.

Another crewman was clutching his side, testing to see if he’d broken any ribs. Mal had a nasty gash across his forehead. But we were all there. We’d made it.

Sturmhond waded back into the water. He stood knee deep in it, contemplating the smooth surface of the lake, his greatcoat pooling out behind him. Other than a torn-up stretch of earth along the shore, there was no sign that the Hummingbird had ever been.

The uninjured Squaller turned on me. “What happened back there?” she spat. “Kovu was almost killed. We all were!”

“. . .I don’t know,” I finally said, my voice oddly hollow. I rested my head against my knees.

Mal drew his arm around me. But I didn’t want comfort. I wanted to know why the Fold had felt like home and why I ached over the death of volcra. I wanted an explanation for what I’d seen. 

“You don’t know?” she said incredulously.

“That would be the meaning of 'I don't know,' yes,” I snapped, surprised at the surge of anger that came with the words. “I didn’t ask to be shoved into the Fold. Again. I didn't ask for an amplifier from a creature of myth, or to break natural law and get a second one.” My volume was steadily rising. “I didn't ask to be hunted or manipulated or kidnapped or used for murder or to have to figure any of this out. Less than a year ago I was a military cartographer who spent her life drawing pictures in tents! I’m not the one who went looking for a fight with the volcra! If you want to know what happened, why don’t you ask your captain?” I spat.

“She’s right,” Sturmhond said, trudging out of the water and up the shore toward us as he stripped off his ruined gloves. “I should have given her more warning, and I shouldn’t have gone after the nest.”

Somehow the fact that he was agreeing with me just made me angrier. But then Sturmhond removed his hat and goggles, and my rage disappeared, replaced by complete and utter bewilderment.

Mal was on his feet in an instant. “What the hell is this?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

I sat paralyzed, staring dumbly, my pain and weariness eclipsed by the bizarre sight before me. I could thank the Saints that at least Mal saw it, too. After what had happened on the Fold, I wasn't quick to trust myself.

Sturmhond sighed and ran a hand over his face—a stranger’s face.

His chin had lost its pronounced point. His nose was still slightly crooked, but nothing like the busted lump it had been. His hair was no longer ruddy brown but dark gold, neatly cut to military length, and those strange, muddy green eyes were now a clear, bright hazel. Everything about his face that had looked wrong to me was gone. He looked completely different, but he was unmistakably Sturmhond.

_And he’s handsome,_ I thought with a jab of baffled resentment.

Mal and I were the only ones staring. None of Sturmhond’s crew seemed remotely surprised.

“. . .You have a Tailor,” I said quietly.

Sturmhond winced.

“I am not a Tailor,” Tolya said angrily.

“No, Tolya, your gifts lie elsewhere,” Sturmhond said soothingly. “Mostly in the celebrated fields of killing and maiming.”

“Why would you do this?” I asked, slowly getting to my feet, still trying to adapt to the jarring experience of Sturmhond’s voice coming from a stranger's mouth.

“It was essential that the Darkling not recognize me. He hasn’t seen me since I was fourteen, but it wasn’t something I wanted to chance.”

“Who are you?” Mal asked furiously.

“That’s a complicated question.”

“Actually, it’s a simple question,” I said. “But it does require telling the truth. Something you seem thoroughly incapable of.”

“Oh, I can do it,” Sturmhond said, shaking water from one of his boots. “I’m just not very good at it.”

“That's why you practice. Now, for instance. Perfect opportunity to try.”

“Sturmhond,” Mal snarled, advancing on him. “You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself, or Tolya’s going to have to make you a whole new face.”

Then Tamar leapt to her feet. “Someone’s coming.”

We all quieted, listening. The sounds came from beyond the wood surrounding the lake: hoofbeats—lots of them, the snap and rustle of broken branches as men moved toward us through the trees.

Sturmhond groaned. “I knew we’d been sighted. We spent too long on the Fold.” He heaved a ragged sigh. “A wrecked ship and a crew that looks like a bunch of drowned possums. This is not what I had in mind.”

I wanted to know exactly what he did have in mind, but there was no time to ask. I shot Mal a questioning look.

He scoffed. “Cover us if it comes to it, but let that bastard fend for himself,” he said, quiet enough that only I could hear.

The trees parted, and a group of mounted men charged onto the beach. Ten. . .twenty. . .thirty soldiers of the First Army. King’s men, heavily armed. Where had they all come from? I tensed and backed closer to Mal. My hands twitched. We would not be taken prisoner again, especially not by the First Army when Mal may still be considered a deserter.

“Easy, Summoner,” the privateer whispered. “Let me handle this.”

“Because you’ve handled everything else so well, Sturmhond?”

“It might be wise if you didn’t call me that for a while.”

“And why is that?” I bit out.

“Because it’s not my name.”

For a moment, I was frozen. “Of course. Of course it's not. Because why would anything about you not be a complete lie?” I hissed quietly.

The soldiers cantered to a halt in front of us, the morning light glittering off their rifles and sabers. A young captain drew his blade. “In the name of the King of Ravka, throw down your arms.”

Sturmhond stepped forward, placing himself between the enemy and his wounded crew. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Our weapons are at the bottom of the lake. We are unarmed.”

I suppressed a smile. I didn't need a weapon. And knowing what I did of both Sturmhond and the twins, I seriously doubted they were unarmed.

“State your name and business here,” commanded the young captain.

Slowly, Sturmhond peeled his sodden greatcoat from his shoulders and handed it to Tolya.

An uneasy stir went through the line of soldiers. Sturmhond wore Ravkan military dress. He was soaked through to the skin, but there was no mistaking the olive drab and brass buttons of the Ravkan First Army—or the golden double eagle that indicated an officer’s rank. What game was he playing? I readied myself to get Mal and I away from here.

An older man broke through the lines, wheeling his horse around to confront Sturmhond. With a start, I recognized Colonel Raevsky, the commander of the military encampment at Kribirsk, and bent the light away from Mal and I instantly. No one but Tamar seemed to notice, and she managed to limit her reaction to a momentary widening of her eyes. Had we crashed so close to town? Was that how the soldiers had gotten here so quickly?

“Explain yourself!” the colonel commanded. “State your name and business before I have you stripped of that uniform and strung up from a high tree.”

Sturmhond seemed unconcerned. When he spoke, his voice had a quality I’d never heard in it before. “I am Nikolai Lantsov, Major of the Twenty-Second Regiment, Soldier of the King’s Army, Grand Duke of Udova, and second son to His Most Royal Majesty, King Alexander the Third, Ruler of the Double Eagle Throne, may his life and reign be long.”

My jaw dropped. Shock passed like a wave through the row of soldiers. A nervous titter rose from somewhere in the ranks. I didn’t know what joke this madman thought he was making, but Raevsky did not look amused. He leapt from his horse, tossing the reins to a soldier.

“You listen to me, you disrespectful whelp,” he said, his hand already on the hilt of his sword, his weathered features set in lines of fury as he strode directly up to Sturmhond. “Nikolai Lantsov served under me on the northern border and. . . .”

His voice faded away. He was nose to nose with the privateer now, but Sturmhond did not blink. The colonel opened his mouth, then closed it. He took a step back and scanned Sturmhond’s face. I watched his expression change from scorn to disbelief to what could only be recognition.

Abruptly, he dropped to one knee and bent his head.

I thought my eyes might genuinely pop from my head.

“Forgive me, moi tsarevich,” he said, gaze trained on the ground before him. “Welcome home.”

The soldiers exchanged confused glances.

Sturmhond turned a cold and expectant eye on them. He radiated command. A pulse seemed to pass through the ranks. Then, one by one, they slipped from their horses and dropped to their knees, heads bent.

I shook my head in disbelief. I glanced at the twins, and noticed a total lack of surprise on their faces.

I let the illusion fall from us slowly while the soldiers had their heads bowed. We obviously would not be at Raevsky's mercy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mal muttered.

I’d hunted a magical stag. I wore the scales of a slain ice dragon around my wrist. I’d seen an entire city swallowed by darkness. But this was the strangest thing I’d ever witnessed. And I still didn't believe it.

I stared at the privateer. It wasn't possible, was it? I couldn’t seem to get my mind to work. I scoured my memory for the little bit I knew about the Ravkan king’s two sons. I’d seen the eldest briefly at the Little Palace, but the younger son hadn’t been seen at court in years. He was supposed to be off somewhere apprenticing with a gunsmith or studying shipbuilding.

Or maybe he had done both.

I felt dizzy. _Sobachka,_ Genya had called the prince. Puppy. He'd insisted on doing his military service in the infantry.

Sturmhond. Storm hound. Wolf of the Waves.

I gave my head a little shake, as though I could knock some sense into place. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

“Rise,” commanded Sturmhond—or whoever he was. His whole bearing seemed to have changed.

The soldiers got to their feet and stood at attention.

“It’s been too long since I was home,” boomed the privateer. “But I did not return empty-handed.”

He stepped to the side, then held his arm out, gesturing to me. Every face turned, waiting, expectant.

“Brothers,” he said, “I have brought the Sun Summoner back to Ravka.”

Very suddenly, confusion wasn't at the forefront of my emotions anymore. Light and heat bloomed around me, seemingly of its own accord, glowing with my fury.

Then I hauled off and punched him in the face.


	10. Pawn to D4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ignore if you haven't read the books:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> To the anti-Mal camp, come. Sit and drink some tea with me for a moment. 
> 
> I feel your pain. And I'm going to beg you bear in mind one thing while reading this fic: the Mal in this story is not the jackass seventeen year-old from the books.
> 
> He's still going to flounder and get all insecure and stupid and you're probably going to want to punch him, but it shouldn't be quite as brutal as it was in the books. This guy is as imperfect as Alina, and his character arch is still the sharpest of anyone in the story, but he's not an idiot teenage boy anymore, either.
> 
> I would never ask you to like him. I just want to see what I can do with him, and it's going to be harder to find out what you all think if you go in wanting to stab him in the face with a spoon.
> 
> Basically what I'm asking is this: hate this Mal for this Mal, not for Bardugo's Mal. <3
> 
> P.S. Since I'm here and I haven't said this yet: I love you people.

“You're lucky you didn’t get shot,” Mal said angrily.

He was pacing back and forth in a simply furnished tent, one of the few that remained in the Grisha camp next to Kribirsk. The Darkling’s glorious black silk pavilion had been pulled down. All that survived was a broad swath of dead grass littered with bent nails and the broken remnants of what had once been a polished wood floor.

I took a seat at the rough-hewn table and glanced outside to where Tolya and Tamar flanked the entrance to the tent. Whether they were guarding us or keeping us from escaping, I didn't know.

“It would have been worth it,” I replied. “Besides, no one’s going to shoot the Sun Summoner.”

“You just punched a prince, Alina. I guess we can add one more act of treason to our list.”

I gently flexed my sore hand. My knuckles smarted. “First of all, he's lucky all I did was hit him. And second. . .you’re just jealous.”

“Of course I’m jealous! I thought I was going to get to punch him. That isn’t the point.”

“The day is young,” I offered.

Chaos had erupted after my outburst, and only some fast talking by Sturmhond and very aggressive crowd control by Tolya had kept me from being taken away in chains or worse. At least, that was what they thought. It would have been hard to get chains on me when they couldn't touch my skin without blistering.

Sturmhond had escorted us through Kribirsk to the military encampment. When he left us at the tent, he’d said quietly, “All I ask is that you stay long enough to let me explain. If you don’t like what you hear, you’re free to go.”

“Just like that?” I'd scoffed.

“Trust me.”

I actually laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “Every time you say ‘trust me,’ I trust you a little less.”

But Mal and I did stay, unsure of what our next move might be. Sturmhond hadn’t bound us or put us under heavy guard. He’d provided us with clean, dry clothes. If we wanted to, we could try to slip past Tolya and Tamar and escape back across the Fold. It wasn’t as if anyone could follow us. We could emerge anywhere we liked along its western shore. But where we could go after that was the question. Sturmhond had changed, but our situation hadn’t. We had no money, no allies, and we were still being hunted by the Darkling. And I wasn’t eager to return to the Fold, not after what had happened aboard the Hummingbird.

I pushed down a bleak bubble of laughter.

A servant entered with a large tray. He set down a pitcher of water, a bottle of kvas and glasses, and several small plates of zakuski. Each of the dishes was bordered in gold and emblazoned with a double eagle. I wanted to throw them at a wall.

I considered the food: smoked sprats on black bread, marinated beets, stuffed eggs. We hadn’t had a meal since the previous night, aboard the Volkvolny, and using my power had left me famished, but I was too tight with nervous energy to eat.

“What happened back there?” Mal asked as soon as the servant departed.

I flexed my hand again. “I lost my temper. You've only seen it about a thousand times. But I don't know about the light. It just sort of gathered around me on its own.”

“It what?" he asked, perplexed. Then he shook his head. "That’s not what I meant. What happened on the Fold?”

I studied a little pot of herbed butter, picking the dish up and turning it in my hands. _I saw him._

“I don't know.” I said, my voice quiet. “I must have just. . .been tired? Too much excitement, maybe.”

“You used a lot more of your power when we escaped from the nichevo’ya, and you never faltered. You put on the sea whip's scales and glowed like a second sun and looked _more_ energized afterwards. Using your power has always made you stronger. I know it's harder for you to concentrate when you're tired, but you've never just shut down like that. And you screamed, Alina. Is it the fetter?”

I shook my head. “The fetter makes me stronger,” I said. Besides, I’d been wearing it for weeks. There was nothing wrong with my power, but there might be something wrong with me. I traced an invisible pattern on the tabletop. “When we were fighting the volcra, did they sound different to you?” I asked.

“Different how?”

“More. . .human?”

Mal frowned. “No, they sounded pretty much like they always do. Like monsters who want to eat us. Does this have anything to do with you asking if I felt something in there?” He laid his hand over mine. “Alina, what happened?”

I opened my mouth to speak. _I saw him._ I closed my lips and shook my head. _I saw him._ “Must have gotten startled by the blast, I guess. I don't know.”

He drew back and looked at me. It was the face of my best friend, the man who had known me all my life, and who couldn't believe I actually thought he'd swallow what I'd just said. “If you want to lie to me, feel free. But I’m not going to pretend to believe you.”

“Why not?” asked Sturmhond, stepping into the tent. “It’s only common courtesy.”

Instantly, we were on our feet, ready to fight.

Sturmhond stopped short and lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. He’d changed into a dry uniform. A bruise was beginning to form on his cheek. Cautiously, he removed his sword and hung it on a post by the tent flap.

“I’m just here to talk,” he said.

“So talk,” Mal snapped. “Who are you, and what are you playing at?”

“Nikolai Lantsov, but please don’t make me recite my titles again. It’s no fun for anybody, and the only important one is ‘prince.’”

I was tempted to tell him I wanted to hear it all again, just so he'd have to go through it. But if he did, I'd probably only bruise his other cheek. “And what about Sturmhond?” I asked.

“I’m also Sturmhond, commander of the Volkvolny, scourge of the True Sea.”

I looked at him archly. “Scourge?”

“Well, I’m vexing at the very least.”

I shook my head. “That's not possible. This is not possible.”

“This is improbable.”

“This is not the time to try to be entertaining,” I snapped.

“Please,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Sit. I don’t know about you, but I find everything much more understandable when seated. Something about circulation, I suspect. Reclining is, of course, preferable, but I don’t think we’re on those kinds of terms yet.”

I didn’t budge. Mal crossed his arms.

“All right, well, I’m going to sit. I find playing the returning hero a most wearying task, and I’m positively worn out.” He crossed to the table, poured himself a glass of kvas, and settled into a chair with a contented sigh. He took a sip and grimaced. “Awful stuff,” he said. “Never could stomach it.”

“Then order some brandy, your majesty,” I said irritably. “I’m sure they’ll bring you all you want on a gem-encrusted tray.”

His face brightened. “True enough. I suppose I could bathe in a tub of it. I may just.”

“Might be a bit hard on the skin,” I said. “Remind me to give you some open wounds first so you can really enjoy it.”

Mal threw up his hands in exasperation and walked to the flap of the tent to look out at the camp.

“I'd really like to point out that you can’t honestly expect us to believe any of this,” I said. “But I'm not sure even you could fool an entire squad of soldiers within two minutes.”

Sturmhond wiggled his fingers to better display his ring. “I do have the royal seal.”

I snorted. “You would have just stolen it from the real Prince Nikolai.”

“I served with Raevsky. He knows me.”

“Maybe you stole his face, too,” I jabbed mulishly.

He sighed. “You have to understand, the only place I could safely reveal my identity was here in Ravka. Only the most trusted members of my crew knew who I really was—Tolya, Tamar, Privyet, a few of the Etherealki. The rest. . .well, they’re good men, but they’re also mercenaries and pirates.”

I stared at him flatly.

“On the seas, Nikolai Lantsov is more valuable as a hostage than as a captain. Hard to command a ship when you’re constantly worrying about being bashed on the head late at night and then ransomed to your royal papa.”

I shook my head. “Prince Nikolai is supposed to be off somewhere studying boats or—”

“I did apprentice with a Fjerdan shipbuilder. And a Zemeni gunsmith. And a civil engineer from the Han Province of Bolh. Tried my hand at poetry for a while. The results were. . .unfortunate. These days, being Sturmhond requires most of my attention.”

Mal leaned against the tent post, arms still crossed. “So one day you decided to cast off your life of luxury and try your hand at playing pirate?”

“Privateer,” he said. “And I wasn’t playing at anything. I knew I could do more for Ravka as Sturmhond than lazing about at court.”

“And where do the King and Queen think you are?” I asked.

“The university at Ketterdam,” he replied. “Lovely place. Very lofty. There’s an extremely well-compensated shipping clerk sitting through my philosophy classes as we speak. Gets passable grades, answers to Nikolai, drinks copiously and often so no one gets suspicious.”

Was there no end to this? “Why?”

“I tried, I really did. But I’ve never been good at sitting still. Drove my nanny to distraction. Well, nannies. There was quite an army of them, as I recall.”

I should have hit him harder. “No. I mean why go through this whole charade?”

“I’m second in line for the Ravkan throne. I nearly had to run away to do my military service. I don’t think my parents would approve of my picking off Zemeni pirates and breaking Fjerdan blockades. They’re rather fond of Sturmhond, though.”

“Fine,” said Mal from the doorway. “You’re a prince. You’re a privateer. You’re a prat. What do you want with us?”

Sturmhond took another tentative sip of kvas and shuddered. “Your help,” he said. “The game has changed. The Fold is expanding. The First Army is close to outright revolt. The Darkling’s coup may have failed, but it shattered the Second Army, and Ravka is on the brink of collapse.”

I felt a buzzing, sinking sensation. “And you're just the one to put things to rights?” I asked quietly.

Sturmhond leaned forward. “Did you meet my brother, Vasily, when you were at court? He cares more about horses and his next drink of whiskey than his people. My father never had more than a passing interest in governing Ravka, and reports are he’s lost even that. This country is coming apart. Someone needs to put it back together before it’s too late.”

“Vasily is the heir,” I observed.

“I think he can be convinced to step aside.”

 _“That’s_ why you dragged us back here? Because you want to be King?” I scoffed, too disgusted to speak for a moment. "Poor choice of occupation for someone who hates sitting still."

“I dragged you back here because the Apparat has practically turned you into a living Saint, and the people love you. I dragged you back here because your power is the key to Ravka’s survival.”

I banged my hands down on the table. “You dragged me back here so you could make a grand entrance with the Sun Summoner and steal your brother’s throne!”

Sturmhond leaned back. “I’m not going to apologize for being ambitious. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m the best man for the job.”

I snorted. “Funny, the Darkling makes a strikingly similar argument for his coup. Perhaps the two of you might be friends.”

“Come back to Os Alta with me.”

“Why? So you can show me off like a prize goat?”

“I know you don’t trust me. You have no reason to. But I’ll abide by what I promised you aboard the Volkvolny. Listen to what I have to offer. If you’re still not interested, Sturmhond’s ships will take you anywhere in the world. I think you’ll stay. I think I can give you something no one else can.”

“This ought to be good,” muttered Mal.

“I can give you the chance to change Ravka,” said Sturmhond. “I can give you the chance to bring your people hope.”

“Oh, is that all?” I said scoffed. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that? The lie of the Sun Saint apparently already gives people hope, and closing the Fold has been on my list for some time now.”

“By helping me unite the First and Second Armies. By becoming my Queen.”

Before I could blink, Mal had shoved the table aside and closed in on Sturmhond, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the tent post. Sturmhond winced but made no move to fight back. I was too busy laughing to think about whether or not I should stop Mal. Or if I wanted to.

Then I caught their faces and realized that Sturmhond hadn't been joking. My laughter died and my face went slack. “You can't be serious. I'm a peasant,” I pointed out, disbelief in my voice.

“You _were_ a peasant. Now you're the Sun Summoner,” Sturmhond corrected, his voice made a little rough by the shirt collar being jammed into his windpipe. “If that's your only objection-”

“You're out of your mind if you think I'll let that happen,” Mal growled, still dangling Sturmhond's feet off the ground.

“Easy, now,” Sturmhond said. “Mustn’t get blood on the uniform. Let me explain—”

“Try explaining with my fist in your mouth.”

Sturmhond twisted, and in a flash, he’d slipped from Mal’s hands. He held a knife, pulled from somewhere up his sleeve.

“Step back, Oretsev. I’m keeping my temper for her sake, but I’d just as soon gut you like a carp.”

“Try it,” Mal snarled.

“Yes, do,” I said, my voice pure ice. Both men paused. Good.

“Sturmhond, sheathe your weapon, or you’ll see exactly how fast _I_ can gut someone. Mal, I'd like the chance to threaten him myself, if you don't mind.”

I waited until Sturmhond tucked away his knife, then slowly let my face thaw somewhat.

Mal dropped his hands, his fists still clenched, and came to stand beside me, crossing his arms over his chest. The two men eyed each other warily. Just a few hours ago, they’d been friends. Of course, one of them had been a completely different person then.

Sturmhond straightened the sleeves of his uniform. “I’m not proposing a love match, you heartsick oaf, just a political alliance. If you’d stop and think for a minute, you’d see it makes good sense for the country.”

Mal let out a harsh bark of laughter. “You mean it makes good sense for you.”

“Can’t both things be true? I’ve served in the military. I understand warfare, and I understand weaponry. I know the First Army will follow me. I may be second in line, but I have a blood right to the throne.”

Mal jabbed his finger in Sturmhond’s face. “You don’t have a right to her.”

Some of Sturmhond’s composure seemed to leave him. “What did you think was going to happen? Did you think you could just carry off one of the most powerful Grisha in the world like some peasant girl you tumbled in a barn?” I bristled. “Is that how you think this story ends? I’m trying to keep a country from falling apart, not steal your best girl.”

“That’s enough,” I snapped quietly.

“You can stay at the palace,” Nikolai continued. “Perhaps as the captain of her personal guard? It wouldn’t be the first such arrangement.”

A muscle jumped in Mal’s jaw. “You're disgusting.”

Sturmhond gave a dismissive wave. “I’m a depraved monster, I know. Just think about what I’m saying for a moment.”

“I don’t need to think about it,” Mal shouted. “And neither does she! It isn’t going to happen.”

“It would be a marriage in name only,” Sturmhond insisted. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he flashed Mal a taunting grin. “Except for the matter of producing heirs.”

Mal surged forward, and Sturmhond reached for his knife, but I saw what was coming and sent a wave of blinding light between them. They threw their hands up to protect their eyes and I stepped into the gap behind it, facing Sturmhond.

Mal released a frustrated growl and backed off to the opposite side of the tent, but he was strung tight as a bow about to snap. Sturmhond picked up a chair that had toppled and reseated himself, making a great show of stretching out his legs and pouring himself another glass of kvas.

“What is the matter with you?” I asked. I took a careful breath. “I've known four powerful men now, and every one of them thought they could buy what they wanted from me as easily as drawing a breath. Your father was number two.” Nikolai's eyes snapped up to me and Mal went rigid. At least now I knew I had the prince's full attention. “As it stands, I don't see many differences between you and the one I'm already running from. All either of you want is power and Ravka laid out at your feet, and you'll do anything to get it. Alina Starkov is nothing but a means to an end to you. She's a title and a set of abilities, and nothing more.”

“I'm not going to pretend that what you are doesn't matter, any more than I'd pretend that 'prince' or 'Sturmhond' don't matter in defining Nikolai Lantsov, but now we're bordering on the philosophical. Alina Starkov is a number of delightful things." I clenched my jaw and rolled my eyes upward. He went on, utterly unperturbed. "One of them happens to be very in demand at the moment. But if you think I mistake one for the other, then you're not as observant as I gave you credit for. Which would be devastating to my ego, because I'm very rarely wrong."

I gritted my teeth. If he wasn't careful, it wouldn't be Mal who needed to be held back from thrashing him.

"I'm not here appealing to the Sun Summoner, Alina. I'm appealing to the woman I met onboard my ship who risked herself for two sailors she didn't know. Who would rather let herself be flayed than help the Darkling. Who was courageous, surprisingly clever, remarkably determined, hits harder than most of the men I've served with, and who would do anything to help her people. The Darkling and I may appear to have the same goal, but you'll find that the real difference is what we intend to do once we have what we're after.”

I was momentarily taken aback. Very momentarily. I closed my eyes and forced myself to take a breath. “Your highness—”

“Nikolai,” he corrected. “But I’ve also been known to answer to ‘sweetheart’ or ‘handsome.’”

Mal whirled, but I silenced him with a look.

“How about jackass?” I asked with a sugary smile. “No, wait. Arrogant jackass? Arrogant, high-handed, presumptuous jackass? You need to reign yourself in right now, Nikolai. Or I’ll knock those princely teeth out myself.”

Nikolai rubbed his darkening bruise. “I know you’re good for it.”

“Good. Then maybe you'll listen,” I said firmly. “I am not marrying you. Ever. I don't care what you have to offer.”

Mal released a breath, and some of the stiffness went out of his shoulders. I threw him a sharp look. Had he honestly thought there was any possibility I might accept Nikolai’s offer?

He really wasn't going to like what I had to say next.

I walked forward, took the glass from Nikolai's hand, raised it to my lips and tipped the contents back. Then I slapped it down on the table, steeled myself, and rasped, “But I will return to Os Alta with you.”

Mal’s head jerked up. “Alina—”

I turned to look at him. “We always said we’d find a way to come back to Ravka, that we’d find a way to help, right? If we don’t do something now, there may not be a Ravka to save. The chance and means to do something almost literally fell into our lap.” I gestured to the prince. Mal shook his head, but said nothing. I turned back to Nikolai and plunged on. “I will return to Os Alta with you, and I’ll consider helping you make a bid for the throne, _if_ I think you're the right man for the job.” I took a deep breath and paused. A thought occurred to me, and before I had time to think about it, the words were already coming out of my mouth: “But I want the Second Army.”

The tent got very quiet. They were looking at me like I was mad. And, truth be told, I didn’t feel entirely sane. But I was done being shuffled across the True Sea and half of Ravka by people trying to use me and my power. I was done being at the bottom, held at the mercy of so many people above me. I was done feeling powerless.

Nikolai gave a nervous laugh. “The people love you, Alina, but I was thinking of a more symbolic title—”

“I’m not a symbol,” I snapped. “And I’m tired of being a pawn.”

“No,” Mal said. “It’s too dangerous. It would be like painting a target on your back.”

“Bigger than the one that's already there? Neither of us will ever be safe until the Darkling is dead. At least this way, there's an army between us and him. That's more than we have otherwise.”

“Have you even held a command?” Nikolai asked.

I’d supervised mapmakers and had once led a seminar of them, but I didn’t think that was what he meant.

“I'm a quick study,” I said stubbornly.

“You have no experience, no precedent, and no claim,” he said. “The Second Army has been led by Darklings since it was founded.”

By one Darkling. But I didn't think this conversation needed to be any more complicated than it already was.

“Age and birthright don’t matter to Grisha. All they care about is power. I’m the only one to ever wear two amplifiers. I'm the only Sun Summoner that has ever existed. And I’m the only Grisha alive powerful enough to take on the Darkling, nevermind his nichevo'ya. I don't have his experience or knowledge, but I more than outmatch him for raw power now. No one else can do what I can.”

I was surprised by the confidence in my voice, even though I wasn’t sure what had come over me. I just knew I was tired of living in fear. I was tired of running. I wanted some sense of control. And if Mal and I were to have any hope of locating the firebird, we needed answers. The Little Palace might be the only place to find them.

For a long moment, the three of us just stood there.

“Well,” Nikolai said. “Well.”

He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, considering. Then he rose and offered me his hand.

“All right, Summoner,” he said. “Help me win the people, and the Grisha are yours.”

“Wait, really?” I asked in disbelief.

Nikolai laughed. “If you plan to lead an army, you’d better learn to act the part. The proper response is, ‘I knew you’d see sense.’”

I took his hand. It was roughly calloused. The hand of a pirate, not a prince. We shook.

“As for my proposal,” he began.

“Don’t push your luck,” I said, snatching my hand back. “My answer won't change. I said I’d go with you to Os Alta, and that’s it.”

“And where will I go?” Mal said quietly.

He stood with his arms crossed, watching us with steady blue eyes. There was still blood on his brow from the crash of the Hummingbird. He looked tired and very, very far away.

I looked at him, confused. “I. . .I thought you’d go with me,” I stammered.

“As what?” he asked, and gently arched one brow. “The captain of your personal guard?”

I flushed. “As whatever you want. As a tracker or a friend or as one of the small number of people in the world who have fought the Darkling and lived to walk away. As a ballet dancer for all I care. . . .As the man I love,” I finished in a small voice.

Nikolai cleared his throat. “As much as I’d love to see how this plays out, I do have some arrangements to make. Unless, of course—”

“Get out,” Mal snapped.

“Right, then. I’ll leave you to it.” He hastened away, stopping only to retrieve his sword.

The silence in the tent seemed to stretch and expand.

“Where is all this going, Alina?” Mal asked. “We fought our way out of this saintsforsaken place, and now we’re sinking right back into the swamp.”

I lowered myself to the cot and rested my head in my hands. I was exhausted, and every bone in my body ached.

“What else are we supposed to do?” I pled. “Am I supposed to sit around and keep letting everyone else make the decisions for me? 'Run, Alina.' 'Hunt the stag, Alina.' 'Be ferried around from country to country by people who want to use you, Alina.' I can't disappear into the cracks anymore, the antlers and the Darkling saw to that. When you found me in the Petrazoi, you told me I was an idiot to run. Now you're telling me, what, that's what I should do? Because it worked so well the first two times? What’s happening here, what’s happening to Ravka—part of the responsibility belongs to me, if not part of the blame.”

He shook his head. I could tell he wanted to say more than one thing.

“That isn’t true,” he said.

I gave a hollow laugh. “Oh yes it is. I might not have set out to hurt anyone, but if I didn't exist, the Fold wouldn’t be growing. If I hadn't been so stupid, so naive, maybe. . . .” I shook my head. That was not a road I would start down. “Novokribirsk would still be standing. You and I will never be free until he's dead, and we can't accomplish that alone. If we go to Os Alta, we'll have armies behind us. Resources, information. And when it's over, we can leave and never look back, if that's what you want. I don't much care where we go, as long as we go together.”

“Alina," Mal said gently, crouching down in front of me and laying his hands on my knees, “even with all the Grisha and a thousand of Sturmhond’s guns, you aren’t strong enough to stop him.”

“You saw what I did on the ship. If we had the third amplifier—”

“But we don’t!”

I gripped his hands. “We will.”

He held my gaze. “Did it ever occur to you that I might say no?”

I blinked and my stomach dropped. It hadn’t. It had never entered my mind that Mal might refuse, and I felt suddenly ashamed. He had given up everything to help me, and then to be with me. Maybe he’d had enough of fighting and fear and uncertainty. Maybe I had been a passing idea, his best friend suddenly getting yanked away. Maybe he could reach a point where he’d had enough.

“I thought. . . .” I couldn't make myself voice what I feared. “I thought we both wanted to help Ravka,” I said instead.

“Is that what we both wanted?” he asked gently.

He held my gaze for a long moment, then stood up and turned his back on me. I saw him take a deep breath. I swallowed hard, forcing down the sudden ache in my throat.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice nearly a whisper. "Do you _want_ to run again? Sturm- Nikolai said his offer was still good."

He sighed heavily, and it was a long moment before he answered. “You, Alina. All I want is you. Beyond that. . .I don't know anymore. Everything is so. . . .” He shook his head.

I wanted to stand up and go to him. I wanted to put my hand on his cheek and ask him to talk to me. But I was afraid of what he might have to say.

“Are you not coming with me, then?” I asked, my voice small and hesitant. “I don't know what else to do, Mal. If we can't run, then what choice do we have but to fight? I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about it first, but the idea didn't even occur to me until it was halfway out of my mouth. I think I'm just tired of feeling helpless.”

He paused at the entrance of the tent. “You have never been helpless, Alina." He looked at me a moment, then shook his head slightly. "You wanted to wear the second amplifier? You have it. You want to go to Os Alta? We’ll go. You think you need the firebird. I’ll find a way to get it for you. But I think you're missing something. And when all this is all over, I can't help but wonder if you’ll still want me.”

I shot to my feet. “Of course I will! You're-”

Whatever I might have said, he didn’t wait to hear it. He shook his head and stepped out into the sunlight, and was gone.

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to push down the tears that threatened. What was I doing, what was wrong with me? I wasn’t a saint. I wasn't a hero. And I certainly didn’t know how to lead an army.

I heard Baghra's voice, words she had repeated to me dozens of times when she was training me at the Little Palace. _Foolish girl._ Maybe she was right. Maybe all I was was a foolish, stupid girl. But I couldn't see any way now except forward. What choice did I have?

I caught a glimpse of myself in a soldier’s shaving mirror that had been propped on the bedside table. I pulled my coat and shirt to the side, baring the wound at my shoulder. The puncture marks from the nichevo’ya stood out, puckered and black against my skin. I ran a fingertip over them gingerly. They were still sore to the touch. The Darkling had said they would never heal completely. I wondered how he knew that. I wondered what else he knew.

What wound couldn’t be healed by Grisha power?

Perhaps one made by something that never should have existed in the first place. Perhaps one made by something that existed outside the laws that governed Grisha power.

I'd seen him. The Darkling’s face, pale and beautiful, the black of his kefta billowing in the wind made by our passage, the slash of the knife. The feeling of welcome. It had been so real. What had happened on the Fold?

Going back to Os Alta, never mind taking control of the Second Army, was as good as a declaration of war. The Darkling would know where to find me, and when he was strong enough, he’d come looking. Ready or not, we’d have no choice but to make a stand. It was a sobering, frightening thought, but I was surprised to find that it also brought me some relief.

I would face him. And one way or another, this would end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerd bonus: Pawn to d4 is an opening chess move for, among others, a strategy called the Queen's Gambit. It's said to be the only one of the gambit strategies that is sound against perfect play.
> 
> Isn't that clever? I thought that was terribly clever. *rewards self with taco*


	11. Autchen'ye Alina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~You all know I can't stand these notes at the beginnings of chapters, but I have to say one thing:~~
> 
> ~~Alternate title: I Might Be Slightly Homicidal After Finishing This Because Holy Sweet Jesus it WOULD NOT END.~~
> 
> ~~I needed to vent that. Thank you. Carry on.~~

We spent the next three days transporting shipments of goods across the Fold. We operated out of what was left of the military encampment at Kribirsk. Most of the troops had been pulled back when the Fold started expanding. A new watchtower had been erected to monitor the black shores of the Unsea, and only a skeleton crew stayed on to operate the drydocks.

Not a single Grisha remained at the encampment. After the Darkling’s attempted coup and the destruction of Novokribirsk, a wave of anti-Grisha sentiment had swept through Ravka and the ranks of the First Army. I wasn’t surprised. An entire town was gone, its people food for monsters. Ravka wouldn’t soon forget. Neither would I.

Some Grisha had fled to Os Alta to seek the protection of the King. Others had gone into hiding. Nikolai suspected that most of them had sought out the Darkling and defected to his side. But with the help of Nikolai’s rogue Squallers, we made three trips across the Fold on the first day and second days, and four on the last. Pairs of sandskiffs journeyed to West Ravka empty and returned with huge cargos of Zemeni rifles, crates full of ammunition, parts for repeating guns similar to those the twins had used aboard the Hummingbird, and a few tons of sugar and jurda—all courtesy of Sturmhond’s smuggling.

“Bribes,” Mal said as we watched giddy soldiers tear into a shipment being unloaded on the dock, hooting and marveling over the glittering array of weaponry.

“Gifts,” Nikolai corrected. “You’ll find the bullets work, regardless of my motives.” He turned to me. “I think we can fit in one more trip today. Game?”

I wasn’t, but I nodded wearily without looking at him.

He smiled and clapped me on the back. “I’ll give the orders.”

I turned a glare on him as he walked away. I could feel Mal watching me as I turned to look into the shifting darkness of the Fold. There hadn’t been a recurrence of the incident aboard the Hummingbird. Whatever I’d seen that day—vision, hallucination, I couldn’t name it—it hadn’t happened again. But every time we went back in, I felt that same disquieting sense of welcome and belonging, and I spent each moment on the Unsea alert and wary, trying to hide just how truly frightened I was.

Nikolai wanted to use the crossings to hunt volcra, but I refused, and would hear no arguments. I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing those screams again. I kept the light in a massive, glowing dome around the line of skiffs, and though the volcra shrieked and beat their wings, they kept their distance.

Mal accompanied us on all the crossings, staying close by my side, rifle at the ready. When I was too weary to stand, I often sat against the rails with my eyes closed and leaned my head against his leg. I knew he sensed my anxiousness, but he didn’t press me for an explanation. In fact, he hadn’t said much at all since our argument in the tent. I was afraid that when he did start talking, I wouldn’t like what he had to say. I hadn’t changed my mind about returning to Os Alta – what choice did I really have? - but I was worried that he might. I didn't know what it would mean for me if he did.

I convinced Nikolai to give me an extra day before we left for Os Alta. As the first warm colors of dawn broke the horizon, I shouldered a small pack of supplies and departed alone to walk deep into the Fold. Mal had wanted to come with me, but he relented once I told him what I had planned. Though he obviously didn't like my idea, he put up so little fight that I worried over it long after the thick blackness of the Fold had blotted out the sights and sounds of the encampment.

I journeyed hard for most of the day, splitting the silken blackness with a column of light every few hours to check the sun's position. If I didn't get back before dawn the next day, they would have no choice but to come looking.

I passed the remains of dozens of failed crossings and bones bleached with age, half-buried in the dead, gray sands, gathered over hundreds of years. I saw the corpses of rifles and torches, scraps of uniforms and Grisha robes. I even saw a pocket watch, its face scratched to opaqueness by sand or time or both. Once I was far enough away that I didn't think I could hurt anyone, I closed my eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.

I felt the light around me outside of my glowing dome, even here. I felt the well of my power, nearly bottomless now. Then I called on every bit of it. I pulled on the ancient strength of the stag, its power and steadiness, and on the wrath and cutting fury of the sea whip, truly unafraid of the light and the heat for the first time with no one around to hurt. It was exultant, simply letting go, allowing the power to course through me as it was meant to, and for a moment that stretched beyond my sense of time, I forgot what I was supposed to be doing, and simply burned, white-hot and pure.

I recalled the first time I had summoned after putting on the fetter, the feeling of a world made of nothing but light. I poured everything I was into it now, feeling myself open and come apart, until there was no longer an Alina – there was only light and Sun and raw, ancient power, finally called home to its purpose. I could hear the horrible, human screams of the volcra at the distant edges of my glow, so far away that they sounded like whispers.

Time ceased to have meaning as I maintained, steady as the sun, solid as the earth, relentless as the tides. I was a mindless force of nature, the burning heart of a star.

I felt the sun as it moved overhead, and somehow, as the natural daylight began to wane, I found myself again. As slowly, as surely as a plant going to bed for the night in the forest, I let my light diffuse and fade until it was reduced to a gentle, calming glow. I had been unmade. And yet, here I was once more, whole and human.

I opened my eyes. Calm suffused me, calm like I had only felt after using each of the amplifiers for the first time, and a certainty like I had only felt under the touch of a living amplifier. I was me, and also not me. I looked around in the great expanse of soft, golden light.

Where there had been skeletons of skiffs and the detritus of failed crossings there was now nothing, all remains long since burned away. The sand was melted and fused together like glass in a wide swath around me as far as I could see. But outside the massive circle of my light, the Fold remained, untouched.

Even with two amplifiers, I was not strong enough. I felt the nakedness of my empty wrist like an ache, a physical pain.

I dropped to my knees and for a time, I simply sat back on my heels and tried not to weep.

People had been waiting generations for the Sun Summoner to save them. They prayed to her, to it, to me. I had broken natural law by taking a second amplifier, and I now wore two of untold, legendary power. And still it was not enough.

The lie of the Sun Saint burned like acid in the back of my throat. The lie of the Sun Summoner hurt no less.

I made my way back to the outpost, eating fruit and bread and dried meat as I walked. For a time, I let my light shrink around me to a small dome, only just larger than the reach of the volcra. I listened to their sounds as they shrieked and dove, testing the boundary of the light. My whole body was rigid, ready to explode with searing power at the slightest alarm, but I forced myself to maintain. I needed to know what it was I felt in the Fold, and why the volcra seemed, while still dangerous, somehow less alien. What I truly wanted was to let my light die, to feel the thick blackness of this place on my skin, to understand why it felt different. But I knew that would be suicide.

The wound on my shoulder pulled and burned the whole time.

Oddly, after a long while the volcra seemed to calm. I listened to them as they swooped and chittered at one another only feet from me. They made sounds I doubted anyone had ever heard before, far from the screams and cries that accompanied their attacks. I couldn't help but feel that they were _talking_ to one another. The thought sent a shiver up my spine, and a particularly sharp pain lanced through the bite on my shoulder.

The volcra were so close, sometimes I saw the sand blown near my feet from one of them landing or taking off. I felt the breeze on my skin. When I began to hear what sounded like some of them walking, shuffling, keeping pace with me, I couldn't take any more. I flared the brightness of the dome around me in warning, then slowly expanded it out to what I felt was a much safer distance. They did not bother me again, and I tried not to think too closely about my impulse to protect monsters, or the fact that I had acted on it.

When I arrived back at camp, the sky was inky and bright with stars. Mal had been waiting for me, sitting up against a post of the makeshift dry dock. He was climbing to his feet as I exited the Fold. When I saw him, I stopped. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed, as if I had been avoiding any feeling on the Shadow Fold and now, faced with his familiar blue eyes, the welcome, if uncertain quirk of his lips, it all came rushing in at once.

Tears began spilling down my cheeks. I stood unmoving as he approached me, and I let him fold me into his arms. I heard someone apologizing, over and over again as I stood tucked against his chest. It was some time before I realized it was me. (“I tried. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It wasn't enough, I'm not enough.”) He spoke quiet, soothing words to me. (“You've always been enough, Alina. We'll figure this out, ok? We always do. We'll figure it out.”)

He told me how Nikolai and the soldiers had stood watching at the Fold for hours while the sun was still bright in the sky. The edges of my light had passed the top of the Fold, and the glow had penetrated it all the way back to the outpost.

And still it had not been nearly enough.

We stripped our cots that night and slept together on the ground, his arms wrapped around me, murmuring soft words as I shook with silent tears.

 

 * * * * *

 

As we decamped for the capital in the morning, soldiers stopped to gawk at me and whisper to one another until Nikolai or Raevsky drew near enough to bark orders them.

I found myself growing more and more anxious. Mal had been gone when I had woken. He'd left a tray of breakfast in his place, but I had yet to see him. I grew terrified despite myself that he might just decide not to show up. I said a little prayer of thanks when I glimpsed him, straight-backed and silent in his saddle, waiting to join the column of riders. When he saw me, he gave me a lopsided smile, but behind it I could tell he was weary and tight.

We set out before dawn, me yawning so broadly and often that I feared my jaw might come unhinged. We were a twisting procession of horses and wagons that wended its way out of camp on the Vy. Nikolai had obtained a Summoner's kefta for me, plain blue, but it was tucked away in the luggage. Until he had more of his own men in place to guard me, I was just another soldier in the prince’s retinue. I welcomed the relative anonymity.

As the sun crested the horizon, I felt a small flutter of hope, like a waking moth in my chest. The idea of trying to take the Darkling’s place, of attempting to reassemble the Grisha and command the Second Army, still felt impossibly daunting. I knew I couldn't take down the Fold. But at least I was doing something instead of just fleeing from the Darkling or waiting for him to snatch me up. I had two of Morozova’s amplifiers, which was infinitely far from nothing, and I was headed to a place where I might find answers that would lead me to the third. Mal was unhappy, but he was here, and watching the morning light break over the treetops, I felt sure I could bring him around.

My mood didn’t survive the journey through Kribirsk. We’d passed through the ramshackle port town after the crash on the lake, but I’d been too shaken and distracted to really take note of the way the place had changed. This time, it was unavoidable.

Though Kribirsk had never had much beauty to recommend it, its sidewalks had teemed with travelers and merchants, King’s men and dockworkers. Its bustling streets had been lined with busy stores ready to outfit expeditions into the Fold, along with bars and brothels that catered to the soldiers at the encampment. But these streets were quiet and nearly empty. Most of the inns and shops had been boarded up.

The real revelation came when we reached the church. I remembered it as a tidy building capped by bright blue domes. Now the whitewashed walls were covered in writing, row after row of names written in red paint that had dried to the color of new blood. The steps were littered with heaps of withered flowers, small painted icons, the melted stubs of prayer candles. I saw bottles of kvas, piles of candy, the abandoned body of a child’s doll. Gifts for the dead.

I scanned the names:

 _Stepan Ruschkin, 57_  
_Anya Sirenka, 13_  
_Mikah Lasky, 45_  
_Rebeka Lasky, 44_  
_Petyr Ozerov, 22_  
_Marina Koska, 19_  
_Valentin Yomki, 72_  
_Sasha Penkin, 8 months_

They went on and on. My fingers tightened on the reins as a cold fist closed over my heart. Memories came back to me unbidden: an old man, confused and frightened, swallowed by the panicked crowd, a mother running with a child in her arms, a man stumbling as the darkness caught him, his mouth open in a scream. I’d seen it. I didn't blame myself, but that didn't change the fact that it had been possible because of my own stupid mistakes. Because of my very existence.

These were the people of Novokribirsk, the city that had once stood directly across from Kribirsk on the other side of the Fold. A sister city full of relatives, friends, business partners. People who had worked the docks and manned the skiffs, some who must have survived multiple crossings. They’d lived on the edge of a horror, thinking they were safe in their own homes, walking the streets of their port town. And now they were all gone because I’d failed to stop the Darkling.

Mal brought his horse up beside mine.

“Alina,” he said softly. “Come away.”

I didn't move. I wanted to remember. _Tasha Stol, Andrei Bazin, Shura Rychenko._ As many as I could. They’d been murdered by the Darkling. Did they haunt his sleep the way they haunted mine? Did he feel remorse anymore?

“We have to stop him, Mal,” I said, my voice unsteady. “We have to find a way. This can't go on.”

I don’t know what I hoped he would say, but he remained silent. Perhaps Mal didn't want to make me any more promises.

Eventually, he nudged his horse closer and put a hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. I forced myself to read every single name, and only then did I turn to go, guiding my horse back into the deserted street. Mal rode silently beside me until Tamar called for him further up the column.

A bit of life seemed to return to Kribirsk as we moved farther away from the Fold. A few shops were open, and there were still merchants hawking their wares on the stretch of the Vy known as Peddlers’ Way. Rickety tables lined the road, their surfaces covered in brightly colored cloth and spread with a jumble of merchandise: boots and prayer shawls, wooden toys, shoddy knives in hand-tooled sheaths. Many of the tables were littered with what looked like bits of rock and chicken bones.

“Provin’ye osti!” the peddlers shouted. “Autchen’ye osti!” Real bone. Genuine bone.

As I leaned over my horse’s head to get a better look, an old man called out, “Alina!”

I jerked and looked up in surprise, and pulled my horse to a stop. Did he know me?

Nikolai was suddenly beside me. He nudged his horse close to mine and snatched my reins, giving them a hard yank to draw me away from the table.

“Net, spasibo,” he said to the old man.

“Alina!” the peddler cried. “Autchen’ye Alina!”

“Wait,” I said, twisting in my saddle, trying to get a better look at the old man’s face. He didn't look familiar, but I couldn't tell from so far away. He was tidying the display on his table, all interest in me apparently gone.

“Wait,” I repeated. “He knew me.”

“No he didn’t.”

“He called my name,” I said, snatching the reins back from him.

“He was trying to sell you relics. Finger bones. Genuine Saint Alina.”

I froze, a deep chill stealing over me. My oblivious horse kept steadily on.

 _Autchen'ye Alina. Genuine Alina._ “You can't be serious.” I said numbly.

Nikolai shifted uneasily. “There are rumors that you died on the Fold. People have been selling off parts of you all over Ravka and West Ravka for months. You’re quite the good luck charm.”

“Those are supposed to be my fingers?”

“Knuckles, toes, fragments of rib.”

I pulled my horse up short, suddenly queasy. I knew it would be idiotic to give myself away. I couldn't. But surely I could find some other way to get them to shut down.

Abruptly, I wheeled my horse around, but before I could move back toward the peddler, Nikolai had kicked his mount ahead to block my path.

“I've been meaning to ask you something,” he said conversationally.

I gave him a dark look. “Move, Nikolai.”

He signed. “Alina, there are hundreds more like him in every town, every village, every city, every outpost. If you want to stop him and everyone like him, the best way is to stick to the plan and prove to the world that you're alive. Safely. Not by raining heavenly vengeance down on every merchant who lies through their teeth to make a sale. It would take us days just to get to the next town. I promise, there will be plenty of nobles at court you'll want to set on fire. Conserve your energy.”

I looked at him for a moment, clenching my jaw, then turned my horse back around and urged it to move with a disgusted shake of my head. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered.

“Of course,” Nikolai said, effortlessly slipping back into his light, good-humored mask. “If half of those were really your toes, you’d have about a hundred feet. But superstition is a powerful thing,” he said.

“So is faith,” said a voice behind Nikolai, and when I turned, I was surprised to see Tolya there, mounted on a huge black warhorse, his broad face solemn.

Nikolai maneuvered his horse alongside mine, and we rode in silence until Tolya had passed, his monstrous horse moving to catch up to the rest of the column.

“Failed attempts to divert your attention aside, I really have been meaning to ask you,” Nikolai said once the giant was out of earshot. “My father. What did he want?” His tone was light, even casual, but there was a note of tension under it that I didn't think I'd ever heard in his voice.

As well informed as he was, I knew there was no way he could be ignorant of his father's reputation.

“The Darkling's hair care routine, oddly enough,” I said. “Seemed to be concerned he might be thinning out up top, but apparently the Darkling just wouldn't give up his secrets. Heartless man, really. Should have seen the whole 'crushing world domination' thing coming.”

He was silent for so long that I thought, or at least hoped, that he had decided to let it go.

“I know my father's reputation, Alina,” he said quietly. “And you are nothing if not beautiful.”

I clenched my jaw. “I'm not going to marry you, no matter how many compliments you pay me,” I grumbled, forcing my tone to be light. “And frankly I'm offended. I'm far more than a pretty face, Nikolai. I'm delicate, polite, subtle. . . .”

He shook his head. “I understand if you don't want to talk about it. Just tell me. . .he didn't. . .did he hurt you?”

I chuckled darkly and felt a cold smile spread across my lips. I kept my eyes ahead. “The palace is still standing, isn't it?” I asked.

Without another word, I kicked my horse into a canter. I’d always been a clumsy rider, but I held on tight and did not stop until Kribirsk was far behind me and I no longer felt the echo of unwanted hands, or the whispered voices of girls and women who had never had the option to say no.

 

 * * * * *

 

Far past the outskirts of Kribursk, I saw a lone figure standing off the side of the road. I gave it a passing glance, and nearly fell off my horse.

The Darkling stood alone, calmly watching me as I rode past, tall grasses swallowing the bottom of his black kefta.

I yanked my horse up short, my heart hammering wildly, spun it around, and without another thought, sliced my arm through the air, sending a blinding arc of light toward him.

Shouting broke out around me. I had my arm up ready to throw the Cut again, but stilled. The first had sliced into nothing but grass and earth. I sat, frozen on my horse, my hand hanging in the air like an idiot, oblivious to the chaos around me.

A shred of sense returned and I wheeled back around. "Just practicing!" I called. "Only practicing! Everything's fine!" _Everything's fine,_ I repeated to myself, hoping the smile I had plastered to my face was more calm and relaxed than lunatic and panicked.

A whole section of the caravan had come to a halt because of my spectacle, and it took both Nikolai and Raevskey to get them moving again. I made myself sit up straight in my saddle and hold my chin at a confident angle, but steered my horse away from the rest of the line so no one would see how badly I was shaking.

It was short minutes before Nikolai had pulled up next to me wanting to know what had happened.

I sat, staring dumbly ahead, unable to think of an excuse. During my silence, Mal brought his horse in a canter from his position far ahead in the column to flank my other side.

"A bee," I finally said, and thanked the Saints for how calm my voice sounded.

"A. . .bee," Nikolai repeated dumbly. I saw him glance at Mal from the corner of my eye.

"Deathly allergic," I said. I paused. "Probably I overreacted."

"You-"

"They're frightening, you know. Bees. One little sting and I puff right up. I swell like a fruit, my windpipe squeezes shut. Then there we go, dead hero. No good to anyone." I knew I was rambling.

"Alina you're shaking. You're shaking like it's winter and you're outside in a nightdress."

"Am I?" I asked as though surprised. "Ah, right.  Thank you." I closed my eyes, trying very hard not to think about having this exact exchange with the Darkling as I rode in front of him, his arms pressed to either side of me as he held the reigns.

As I had done then, I closed my eyes, calmed my breathing, and tried to still the tremors. At first, I found I couldn't, and my frustration made it only harder to accomplish. I heard someone trot up, exchange hushed words with Nikolai, then trot away. I could feel Mal and the prince having some kind of silent conversation, then going back to staring at me.

Eventually, the shaking eased, then stopped. My muscles unclenched. I took several more steadying breaths to make sure I had it under control before opening my eyes again. I turned to smile at Nikolai. "See? All better," I said. "I'll uh. . .I'll start carrying a swatter with me to avoid inciting further panic, shall I?"

Nikolai looked at me in silence for so long that I began to grow uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Then he narrowed his eyes. "Is it this infuriating talking to me?"

"Yes," Mal and I answered at the same time.

". . .Well. Thank the Saints for my charm and good looks, then." I heard him sigh quietly before he urged his horse forward, back up the line. He was gone for several minutes before I was able to make myself look at Mal.

It was a long time before he turned to look back. When he did, I wasn't sure what it was I saw on his face. "That explosion, again?" He asked drily.

I opened my mouth to reply. Then I closed it. I looked away. I wanted to tell him. Part of me needed to tell him. But I couldn't. Not when he was already so unsure of what we were doing. Not when it meant another thing that might be wrong with me. I didn't want him to look at me like he didn't know me. I didn't know if I could bear it.

Another secret for the growing pile at the feet of the man who used to know everything about me.

He sighed, but rode next to me in silence for a time. Eventually, he shook his head to himself and kicked his horse ahead. I moved back into the column.

As hard as I tried, I couldn't still the fear that I might genuinely be going mad.

 

* * * * *

 

Much later that day, when I thought Mal might not be quite so mad, I found him and we rode together in silence for a long while. To my relief, it seemed like a comfortable silence. We slowly drifted a short distance away from the long line of horses and carts. I cast my eyes up to the cloudless sky.

“Why did you think I'd consider his offer?” I asked, keeping my voice light.

“Hmm?” Mal replied, apparently off in his own world, too.

“Back in the tent, the day we got here,” I said. “When I told Nikolai no, you looked like someone had just taken two rucksacks off your shoulders.”

“Oh!” He laughed. “No, I didn't think you were considering it. Saints.” He huffed another laugh. “I was just glad you'd finally said it so that saintsforsaken conversation could finally be over.”

A surge of relief washed through me, so strong that it caught me off guard for a moment.

Then the mirth abruptly left his face. “Wait, were you considering it?”

I made a very impolite sound.

“I heard that,” Nikolai's voice called from ahead of us.

“Eavesdroppers get no complaints about what they overhear, _your Highness,_ ” I called back. “And if you didn't like that, I'd strongly suggest you keep away from my diary!”

I saw his shoulders shake with silent laughter. It seemed he could forgive me, too. I felt something in me unclench that I hadn't even realized had been tight.

Mal cast a look at Nikolai's back. “Actually, I've been meaning to ask you-”

“Yes.”

His brows shot up.

“Yes I'll marry you. I'm deeply disappointed in your delivery, though. I expected at least a flock of doves. The ring had better be impressive, or I might have to reconsider the lifelong torch I've held for you.”

A slight blush crept up his cheeks, and I had to force down a huge smile. As it was, my lips curled downward in a suppressed grin.

“You hate doves." Mal cleared his throat. "You called them glorified pigeons once when Ana Kuya took us to town. I was planning swans, but I'll make a note.” His demeanor turned serious. “What I meant was. . . .” He took a moment to steady himself. I could tell that whatever he was about to ask, part of him didn't want to.

I feared I was about to get the second round of questioning about the King. I mentally kicked myself for having mentioned it. Some people needed alcohol to loosen their lips. All I seemed to need was a small flare of temper.

He lowered his voice. “In Os Alta, you told me that if you hadn't worn black, you would probably already belong,” disgust and anger rolled off him at the word “to someone worse than the Darkling. Does that have anything to do with what you said about the King in Kribursk?”

I sighed inwardly. It was a long time before I answered, and though Mal glanced at me sideways more than once, he waited for me to speak.

“I was never quite sure why he put me in his color,” I began slowly. “I know now that it was to claim me, and to make me feel like I. . .like he and I were the same, I think. Grisha are all beautiful. People at the palace are used to that. The King stayed away from them, as far as I know.” My stomach roiled at the one exception I knew of. “But I was the Sun Summoner, and I think that made me more of a target than the others.

“Saints, my first day there, when it was time to meet him, they actually tried to make me look _less_ attractive, and that was after a week of travel and nightmares and well before I discovered-” I stopped myself. I hadn't told Mal that I'd spent my entire life hiding a piece of myself away so that I could stay with him, and it wasn't a conversation I intended to have with him any time soon. “Before I found more of my power and really grew into myself,” I said instead. “That was why I looked the way I did at the fete."

Mal nodded. My power had always influence my appearance, it was a concept he knew well.

"If I hadn't been in black, I don't know what. . . .” I couldn't finish. Abruptly, I forced a grin onto my face. “But you haven't heard the best part.”

He looked over at me, and I knew he saw through my forced humor. But, saints love him, he played along and arched a brow.

“I told him I couldn't because my powers depended on my 'purity' remaining unsullied.”

Mal nearly choked. He threw his head back and laughter boomed from his chest. More than one head turned in our direction.

Then a thought seemed to occur to him. “I. . . . Wait, it doesn't, right? I mean, you've. . . . You're not. . . .”

I arched a haughty brow at him. “That's an awfully personal question, Malyen.”

For the second time today, for the second time in our lives, I saw him blush. I could get used to the sight.

“Don't worry,” I reassured him. “You still hold that record between us. By a lot, actually. Boatloads. Legions. Scores and dozens and-”

“Thank you,” he interrupted sharply. “Thank you, Alina. I believe you've made your point.”

“Point? Was I making a point? I thought I was just ensuring that your manhood remained unbruised. I mean, I _have_ always been the only person who was prettier than you. I'm sure it's a very sensitive issue. And I could have a record of my own.” I grinned at him. “I believe it might just have been possible to have fun without two friends who ensured the entirety of the First Army heard about my every stolen kiss. And then there were all those months spent among the legendary beauty of the Grisha,” I finished wistfully.

He muttered something under his breath.

“I'm sorry, what?” I shouted. “I didn't quite catch that!”

Heads swiveled in our direction again. More than one rider turned in their saddle to get a look this time.

“I said your hair looks lovely today, dear, thank you,” he said to shush me.

I grinned like a brat as we rode on.

We stayed together for most of the day, but that was the last of our conversation. Mal seemed oddly distracted, as if he had something on his mind. I would put money on knowing exactly what it was, and had to stop myself from breaking into idiot giggles more than once. After all the days and hours I'd spent mooning over him and fretting over his conquests throughout our lives, I figured one afternoon of it might do him some good.

 

 * * * * *

 

That night we stayed at an inn in the little village of Vernost, where we met up with a heavily armed group of soldiers from the First Army. I soon learned that many of them were from the Twenty-Second, the regiment Nikolai had served with and eventually helped lead in the northern campaign. Apparently, the prince wanted to be surrounded by friends when he entered Os Alta. Given his goals, I couldn’t blame him.

He seemed to relax in their presence and, once again, I saw his demeanor change. He’d transitioned effortlessly from the role of glib adventurer to arrogant prince, and now he became a beloved commander, a soldier who laughed easily with his companions and knew each commoner’s name. I shook my head as I watched it.

The soldiers had a lavish coach in tow. It was lacquered in pale Ravkan blue and emblazoned with the King’s double eagle on one side. Nikolai had ordered a golden sunburst added to the other, and it was drawn by a matched team of six white horses. As the glittering contraption rumbled into the inn’s courtyard, I had to roll my eyes, remembering the excesses of the Grand Palace.

I had hoped to eat dinner alone with Mal in my room, but Nikolai had insisted that we all dine together in the inn’s common room, and refused to relent. So instead of relaxing by the fire in peace, we were jammed elbow to elbow at a noisy table packed with officers. Mal hadn’t said a word throughout the entire meal, but Nikolai talked enough for all three of us.

As he dug into a dish of braised oxtail, he ran through a seemingly endless list of places he intended to stop on the way to Os Alta. Just listening to him wore me out.

“I didn’t realize ‘winning the people’ meant meeting every single one of them,” I groused. “Aren’t we in a hurry to get to safety?”

“Ravka needs to know its Sun Summoner has returned.”

“At the side of its wayward prince,” I said flatly.

“Him too. Gossip will do more than royal pronouncements. And that reminds me,” he said, lowering his voice. “From here on out, you need to behave as if someone is watching every minute.” He gestured between me and Mal with his fork, but kept his eyes on me. “What you do in private is your own affair. Just be discreet.”

I nearly choked on my wine. “Excuse me?” I sputtered. I could feel a saintsforsaken blush creeping up my face.

"When we're _allowed_ to be in private, you mean?" Mal muttered acridly.

“It’s one thing for you to be linked with a royal prince, quite another for people to think you’re tumbling a peasant.”

“I’m not— What-it’s nobody’s business! And don't say it like that!” I whispered furiously. “You're asking an awful lot for someone who's benefiting almost solely from this arrangement.” I darted a glance at Mal. His teeth were clenched, and he was gripping his knife a little too tightly. “And in case you've forgotten, _I'm_ a peasant.”

“We've been over this. Whatever you were before you became the Sun Summoner is gone. You get the Second Army, you help me get the throne. That was the arrangement. Be coy about my proposal all you like, but part of the sell is people at least being able to wonder if you and I are linked. Carry on with your brooding friend here the way you have been, and the allusions will be rather pointless.”

 _"Coy?"_ It took everything I had to keep my voice down. A muscle in my jaw twitched. I saw Mal's fist tighten around his knife. “If you want to stab him,” I said, “I will fully support you.”

“Power is alliance,” said Nikolai. “What you do from now on is everyone’s business.” He took another sip of wine as I glared at him in disbelief. It wasn't so much what he was saying, it was that he was actually saying all of it. “And you should be wearing your own colors,” he added.

I shook my head, thrown by the change of subject. “Now you’re choosing my clothes?” I was wearing a blue kefta embroidered with gold, but clearly Nikolai wasn’t satisfied. “You would have been insufferable if I'd said yes.”

He grinned. “Coy. You might yet be surprised. But if you intend to lead the Second Army and take the Darkling’s place, then you need to look the part.”

“Summoners wear blue,” I said petulantly. “Problem solved.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of the grand gesture, Alina. The people like spectacle. The Darkling understood that.”

“You're right, Nikolai. In fact, he was such a great role model, allow me to just hurry and follow his example in all things. Maybe after I get my new outfit, I'll set about plotting my own campaign to take over the world." I added in a serious voice, "I’ll think about it.”

“Might I suggest gold?” Nikolai went on. “Very regal, very appropriate—”

“Very gaudy and ridiculous? Is bad taste genetic, Nikolai? I've seen the decorations at the Grand Palace. And Saints, that _carriage.”_

“Play to the audience, Alina. Gold and black would be best. Perfect symbolism and—”

“No,” Mal snapped. “No black.” He pushed back from the table, dropped his knife to the table with a clatter and, without another word, disappeared into the crowded room.

I set down my fork. “I can’t tell if you deliberately bait him or if you’re really just that big an ass.”

The prince took another bite of his dinner. “He doesn’t like black?”

“It’s the color of the man who enslaved me, tried to kill him, and regularly takes me hostage. So it's a bit of a sore spot, yes.”

“All the more reason to claim that color as your own.”

I craned my neck to see where Mal had gone. Through the doorway, I watched him take a seat by himself at the bar.

I could see the sense behind what Nikolai was saying. It would probably be the smart move. It might even feel good to make his color my own. Still. . . . I cast another glance in Mal's direction. “No black,” I said, my tone final.

“As you like,” Nikolai replied. “But choose something for yourself and your guards.”

I sighed. “Do I really need guards? I can burn people alive and cut buildings in two.” _And disappear in an instant,_ I added silently.

Nikolai leaned back in his chair and studied me, his face suddenly serious. “Do you know how I got the name Sturmhond?” he asked.

“I assumed it was some kind of joke, a play on Sobachka.”

“No,” he said. “It’s a name I earned. The first enemy ship I ever boarded was a Fjerdan trader out of Djerholm. When I told the captain to lay down his sword, he laughed in my face and told me to run home to my mother. He said Fjerdan men make bread from the bones of skinny Ravkan boys.”

“So you killed him?”

“No. I told him foolish old captains weren’t fit meat for Ravkan men. Then I cut off his fingers and fed them to my dog while he watched.”

“You. . .what?”

The room was packed with rowdy soldiers singing, shouting, telling stories, but it all fell away as I stared at Nikolai in stunned silence. It was as if I was watching him transform again, and the charming mask had shifted to reveal a very dangerous man.

“You heard me. My enemies understood brutality. And so did my crew. After it was over, I drank with my men and divvied up the spoils. Then I went back to my cabin, vomited up the very fine dinner my steward had prepared, and cried myself to sleep. But that was the day I became a real privateer, and that was the day Sturmhond was born.”

“So much for ‘puppy,’” I said numbly, feeling a bit nauseated myself.

“I was a boy trying to lead an undisciplined crew of thieves and rogues against enemies who were older, wiser, and tougher. I needed them to fear me. All of them. And if they hadn’t, more people would have died.”

I pushed my plate away, my appetite suddenly gone. If only he knew who he sounded like. “Just whose fingers are you telling me to cut off?”

“I’m telling you that if you want to be a leader, it’s time you started thinking and acting like one.”

I regarded him for a moment. “I’ve heard this before, you know, from the Darkling and his people. Be brutal. Be cruel. Do what needs to be done. 'Fear is a useful tool.' More lives will be saved in the long run. The more I talk to you, the more you sound like him.”

“Do you think I’m like the Darkling?”

I studied him—the golden hair, the sharp uniform, those too-clever hazel eyes, the easy charm. He looked like the Darkling's exact opposite.

“No,” I said slowly. “I don't.” I rose to go join Mal. “But I was wrong about him once, too.”

I made my way through the crowded room to the bar and quietly took a seat next to Mal. “So,” I said. “On a scale of one to agreeing to steal that bottle of kvas from Ana Kuya's room on our thirteenth birthday. . .this is the worst idea I've ever had, isn't it?”

He took a drink from his glass, but didn't look at me. “It's pretty high up the list, Alina.”

I sighed and put a hand on his arm. I felt his muscles twitch as if he wanted to pull away. “Aren't you worried someone will get the wrong idea?” He asked. I saw a muscle in his jaw twitch.

“That's the point,” I replied coolly. “I'll do what I have to to keep up my end of the bargain with Nikolai until the Darkling is dead. I don't like it, but fortunately for our love life,” I leaned in and lowered my voice, “I'm quite good and going unseen when I want to.” I was rewarded with a twitch of his lips, which he tried to hide behind another drink from his glass.

“Nikolai can call you a peasant all he likes,” I went on. “He can delude himself into thinking I'm not one anymore. He can dub us both marmots for all I care, so long as he stays clear on exactly whose peasant or Summoner or small, furry, adorable ground-dwelling rodent I am. I told him I'd help him, and I will. But he doesn't own either of us, and he never will. Prince or pirate or whatever else. If I'm the Sun Summoner, then I'm the Sun Summoner, and everyone else can eat it.”

I saw the tension begin to drain from his shoulders as he gave a near-silent chuckle. He turned to me, a small, affectionate smile on his lips that ran all the way up to his eyes. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

I felt my brows creep up my forehead.

“He didn't say _when_ we had to start pretending,” Mal said with a grin.

“No. He didn't,” I agreed, and put my hand in his. Part of me hoped that every soldier in the company saw it. We sat like that until the room was all but cleared out for the night.

 

 * * * * *

 

The journey to Os Alta was less a march than a slow, excruciating parade. We stopped at every town along the Vy, at farms, schools, churches, and dairies. We greeted local dignitaries and walked the wards of hospitals. We dined with war veterans and applauded girls’ choirs and even toured a barn. Mal was never far, but even with my ability to make us vanish, Nikolai kept us so busy that the only time we could really be together, if not alone, was in the carriage.

I had insisted Mal ride with us, but Nikolai put a stop to that on our second day. We had argued – an “impassioned discussion,” as he would later insist – and surprisingly, it had been Mal who ended it by volunteering to return to horseback. But before he had ducked out of the carriage, he had kissed me so thoroughly that I felt breathless when he pulled away.

“It's almost like he's trying to overcompensate for something,” Nikolai had said conversationally. I had thrown the remains of my lunch at him.

It was impossible not to notice that the villages were mostly populated by the very young and the very old. Every able body had been drafted to serve in the King’s Army and fight in Ravka’s endless wars. The cemeteries were as big as the towns.

Nikolai handed out gold coins and sacks of sugar. He accepted handshakes from merchants and kisses on the cheek from wrinkled matrons who called him Sobachka, and charmed anyone who came within two feet of him. He never seemed to tire, never seemed to flag. No matter how many miles we’d ridden or people we’d met, no matter how many hours he forced into the day, he was ready to meet another.

He always seemed to know what people wanted from him, when to be the laughing boy, the golden prince, the confident leader, the weary soldier. I supposed it was the training that came with being born a royal and raised at court, but it was still unnerving to watch. It almost reminded me of the first time I had seen the Darkling's Nichevo'ya: there was a shape, a form, but it was impossible to tell what it was going to end up being. Nikolai could be everything, all in the span of a few minutes. So the truth was that he could be anything at all, any one of his faces or personas, or one I had yet to see.

He hadn’t been kidding about spectacle. He always tried to time our arrivals at dawn or dusk, or he’d stop our procession in the deep shadows of a church or town square—all the better to show off the Sun Summoner. I wanted to be sick half the time I did it, but I played my part and put on the spectacle, glowing like the Saint they all mistakenly thought I was. I emerged in a wash of blinding light from the carriage. I bathed crowds in a comforting, warm glow.

When he caught me rolling my eyes or grumbling under my breath, he just winked and said, “Everyone thinks you’re dead, lovely. It’s important to make a good showing.”

So I held up my end of the bargain. I smiled graciously and called the light to shine over town squares and entire villages, to bathe every awestruck face in warmth. I summoned spheres of gentle sunlight for people and made them appear to melt into their hearts. I surrounded my head in a luminous halo and my body in a saintly glow that warmed anyone who came near to kiss my hand or offer thanks or prayers or well-wishes. People wept. Often. Mothers brought me their babies to kiss, and old men bowed over my hand, their cheeks damp with tears. I felt like a complete fraud, and eventually I said as much to Nikolai.

“What do you mean?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “The people love you. Your flair for showmanship is almost as good as mine.”

“Which has what to do with you parading around a lie?" I asked irritably as we rode out of one town. "What you mean to say is that the people love your prize goat.”

“Have you actually won any prizes?”

“Several. For my wit and charm and gentle nature.”

My tone turned serious. ”You’ve seen what the Darkling can do. These people will be sending their sons and daughters off to fight nichevo’ya because some magical glowing woman is supposed to be everywhere at once, save everyone, protect everyone, and defeat the Darkling single-handedly. But I won’t be able to save them. You’re feeding them a lie and it's going to get them slaughtered.”

“We’re giving them hope. That’s better than nothing.”

I looked at him for a long moment. “Spoken like a man who’s never had nothing,” I said, and turned to stare fixedly out the window.

 

 * * * * *

 

Ravka in summer was at its most lovely, its fields thick with gold and green, the air balmy and sweet with the scent of warm hay. Despite Nikolai’s protests, I insisted on forgoing the comforts of the coach. My bottom was sore, my thighs complained loudly when I eased from the saddle every night, and changing in and out of my kefta for every stop was a pain, but sitting my own horse meant fresh air getting time with Mal away from the prince's fondness of baiting him.

Nikolai had circulated the story of how the Darkling had tried to execute Mal on the Fold. It had earned Mal instant trust among the soldiers, even a small measure of celebrity. Occasionally, he scouted with the trackers in the unit, and he was trying to teach Tolya how to hunt, though the big Grisha wasn’t much for stalking silently through the woods. I smiled every time I saw him wander off in the direction of the trees or fields with someone.

On the road out of Sala, we were passing through a stand of white elms when Mal cleared his throat, then said, “I've been thinking.”

“Ok,” I prompted, shoving down the joke I wanted to make. I sat up straighter and gave him my full attention. It was the first time he’d initiated a conversation since we’d left Kribirsk.

He shifted in his saddle, not meeting my eye. “About who we could get to round out the guard.”

My brows drew together. “The guard?”

“For you. I can't promise I won't punch Nikolai in the teeth if he makes a joke about it, but. . .well I doubt there's going to be anything at the Little Palace that needs tracking, and I'm not going to be good for much else in that place.” His distaste was plain, but I could see that he was trying, and I loved him for it. “This way. . .at least I can stay near you. If you want me to. Be your guard, I mean.” He cleared his throat and shifted in the saddle again. “A few of Nikolai’s men seem all right, and I think Tolya and Tamar should be considered. They’re Shu, but they’re Grisha, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

I smiled so wide I thought my face would crack. “Are you saying you actually want to be the captain of my personal guard?” I didn't like the idea of Mal putting himself in danger, but I could hardly ask him to forgo something I was already going to be doing every day. And I loved the idea of knowing I could have him with me no matter what I was doing or where I went or who I would be with.

Mal glanced at me, his lips quirking in a smile. “Only if I get a fancy hat.”

“The fanciest,” I said. “And a cape.”

“Will there be plumes?”

“Several. In different colors. You can change them to suit your mood.”

He pretended to mull it over. “Then I’m in. At least the view will be nice,” he said with a grin, and in that moment, he was the old Mal again. The one from before Tsibeya, before Kribursk, before everything that had gone so wrong.

I laughed. “It will do its best not to disappoint. And I'm honored. But Mal, don't forget: you'll be at the Little Palace. The view will be nice everywhere you look.”

“Hmm, good in theory, but I'd have to actually look away from you to see it.”

I tried to suppress a blush. “Isn't a bodyguard supposed to look at everyone _but_ the person they're guarding?”

“Hush," he said. "You're ruining my fantasy.” He smiled, and I would have sworn he was sitting just the littlest bit taller. Mal had never been one who did well unless he had a job to do.

I wanted to leave it at that, but there was still a pinch in my stomach and I couldn’t seem to help myself. I cleared my throat. “I thought. . .well, I figured you might want to go back to your unit,” I said hesitantly. “You hated the idea of going to Os Alta, and. . .you loved your life before all of this. You could have it back. You could be a tracker again.”

Mal studied the knot in his reins. He gave a shake of his head. “I can’t go back. Hopefully, Nikolai can keep me from being hanged—”

“Hanged?” I cried, then quickly had to hush myself when several heads turned toward us.

“I deserted my post, Alina. Not even the King can make me a tracker again.”

Instantly I wanted to argue, but Mal’s voice was steady, untroubled.

 _He adapts,_ I thought. But I knew some part of him would always grieve for the life he’d had. The life he'd been meant to have, that he would have had without me.

“What about a Saint?” I offered softly.

He was quiet for a moment, then nodded up ahead to where Nikolai’s back was barely visible in the column of riders. “There's no way I’m leaving you alone with Prince Perfect.”

Something in me tightened uncomfortably. I tried to make a joke. “You don’t trust me to go a day without knocking his teeth out, do you?”

“Your temper was infamous for a reason, Starkov. But you know that's not what I meant.”

I sighed. I supposed I understood why he thought Nikolai must be tempting, but I wished I could make him see how ridiculous the fear was. “So you don't trust me to resist his charms, then.” I said it in a wry tone, but I would have been lying if I had said it didn't sting a little that he was actually worried about it.

“I don’t even trust myself. I’ve never seen anyone work a crowd the way he does. I’m pretty sure the rocks and trees are getting ready to swear fealty to him.”

I laughed and leaned back, felt the sun warming my skin through the dappled shade of the tree boughs overhead. “So worried, Mal. I didn't think I'd live to see the day.”

He was quiet for so long that I started to think the conversation was over. Then I heard him say, so quietly I wasn't sure if I was meant to reply, “No one ever mattered enough to worry about.”

If I hadn't been on a horse who kept moving at the same plodding pace, utterly ignorant of my emotional state, I wouldn't have been able to hide my reaction.

Suddenly I wished very much that we were alone. I cast a quick glance around and settled for bumping my foot against his leg. When he looked over at me I just kept my eyes forward and smiled.

The day wore on, and the sun was so perfectly bright and warm that I wished I wasn't in disguise so I could let it wash over me. The light tugged at me, almost as if it wanted to call me to it, rather than the other way around. I thought of how the angry glow had gathered around me without being called the day the Hummingbird had crashed.

I touched my fingers to the sea whip’s fetter, safely hidden by my sleeve, and wondered just how changed a person must be by taking a second amplifier. And not just that, but first one, then two creatures of legendary power. For now, I wanted to keep the second amplifier a secret. Nikolai’s Grisha had been sworn to silence, and I could only hope they’d hold their tongues.

My thoughts strayed to the firebird. Some part of me still couldn’t quite believe it was real. Would it look the way it had in the pages of the red book, its feathers wrought in white and gold? Would its wings be tipped with fire, would it trail cinders as it flew? And what kind of monster could pick up a blade or nock an arrow and bring it down?

I had refused to take the stag’s life, and countless people had died because of it—the citizens of Novokribirsk, the Grisha and soldiers I’d abandoned on the Darkling’s skiff. I thought of those high church walls covered in the names of the dead. I had hesitated to take Rusalye's life as it lay bleeding out on the deck of Nikolai's ship, its sides heaving, and all I had accomplished was prolonging the great dragon's suffering. I now wore both amplifiers all the same.

Morozova’s stag. Rusalye. The firebird. Legends come to life before my eyes, just to die in front of me. How much did it matter what I wanted when the Darkling would keep forcing my hand? How could I help when I knew he would only follow behind and destroy what I had chosen to save? And how much of a choice did I really have when he kept laying murder and horror at my feet? He made mercy into something that only ended in suffering and death.

_I don’t want to be a killer._

I thought again of that day I had been attacked on my first journey to Os Alta. I'd had a sense then that the life that was ahead of me might be full of death, that some day that might be all my power meant.

Mercy might not be a gift the Sun Summoner could afford. And once I had all three amplifiers, would I still be myself? Would I care about anything or anyone? I remembered what it had felt like to come apart on the Volkvolny, how I had hated Mal for disrupting me, not cared who or what he was. Then again when I had walked alone into the Fold, where I had forgotten for a time what it was to have a body, a mind, a heart. When all this was done, would I even be human?

I gave myself a shake. First we had to _find_ the firebird. Until then, all our hopes rested on the shoulders of one untrustworthy, shifty prince.

 

 * * * * *

 

The next day, the first pilgrims appeared. They looked like any other townspeople, waiting by the road to see the royal procession roll past, but they wore armbands and carried banners emblazoned with a rising sun. Dirty from long days of travel, they hefted satchels and sacks stuffed with their few belongings, and when they caught sight of me, the stag’s collar around my neck, they swarmed toward my horse, murmuring _Sankta, Sankta,_ and trying to grab my sleeve or my hem. Sometimes they fell to their knees, and I had to be careful or risk my horse trampling one of them.

I thought I’d grown used to all the attention, and long ago being pawed at by strangers, but this felt different. I didn’t like being called “Saint,” and there was something hungry in their faces that set my nerves on edge.

As we pushed deeper into Ravka’s interior, the crowds grew. They came from every direction, from cities, towns, and ports. They clustered in village squares and by the side of the Vy, men and women, old and young, some with children and babies in tow, some on foot, some astride donkeys or crowded into haycarts. Wherever we went, they cried out to me.

Eventually I returned to riding in the carriage. It seemed to put Mal and the soldiers guarding me less on edge to have me out of the reach of so many zealous people, anyway.

Sometimes I was Sankta Alina, sometimes Alina the Just or the Bright or the Merciful. _Daughter of Keramzin,_ they shouted, _Daughter of Ravka._ Daughter of the Fold. _Rebe Dva Stolba,_ they called me, Daughter of Two Mills, after the valley that was home to the nameless settlement of my birth. I had the vaguest memory of the ruins the valley was named after, two rocky spindles by the side of a dusty road. The Apparat had been busy breaking open my past, sifting through the rubble to build the story of a Saint.

The pilgrims’ expectations unnerved me. As far as they were concerned, I’d come to liberate Ravka from its enemies, from the Shadow Fold, from the Darkling, from poverty, from hunger, from sore feet and mosquitos and anything else that might trouble them. They begged for me to bless them, to cure them, but I could only summon light and try to keep the discomfort from my smile and let them touch my hand, all the while wanting to flinch away and pull it back. It was all part of Nikolai’s show, and I grew more disconcerted by it the closer we drew to the capitol and the more people I watched join our stream of followers.

The pilgrims had come not just to see me but to follow me. They attached themselves to the royal processional, and their ragged band swelled with every passing day. They trailed us from town to town, camping in fallow fields, holding dawn vigils to pray for my safety and the salvation of Ravka. They were close to outnumbering Nikolai’s many soldiers.

“This is the Apparat’s doing,” I said darkly to Tamar one night at dinner.

We were lodged at a roadhouse for the evening. Through the windows I could see the lights of the pilgrims’ cookfires, hear them singing peasant songs.

“These people should be home, working their fields and caring for their children, not following some woman they've been tricked into believing is a Saint.”

Tamar pushed a piece of overcooked potato around on her plate and said, “My mother told me that Grisha power is a divine gift.”

“What, and you believed her?”

“I don’t have a better explanation.”

I set my fork down. “I don't have a good explanation for how the Shadow Fold was made, does that mean it was heaven-sent, too? Even if Grisha powers were a divine gift, the people wielding them are still just people. But I've studied Grisha power. It's just science. It's just something you’re born with, like having big feet or freckles or pretty eyes or a good singing voice.”

“That’s what the Shu believe. That it’s something physical, buried in your heart or your spleen, something that can be isolated and dissected.” She glanced out the window to the pilgrims’ camp. “I don’t think those people would agree.”

“. . .Please don’t tell me you think I’m a Saint, Tamar.”

“It doesn’t matter what you are. It matters what you can do.”

I studied her calm, sure face.

“Those people think you can save Ravka,” she said. “Obviously you do, too, or you wouldn’t be going to Os Alta.”

“I’m going to Os Alta to rebuild the Second Army and stop the Darkling.”

“And find the third amplifier?”

I nearly dropped my fork and my eyes darted around us. “Keep your voice down,” I hissed.

“We saw the Istorii Sankt’ya.”

So Sturmhond hadn’t kept the book a secret. “Who else knows?” I asked, trying to regain my composure.

“We’re not going to tell anyone, Alina. We know what’s at risk.” Tamar’s glass had left a damp circle on the table. She traced it with her finger and said, “You know, some people believe that all the first Saints were Grisha.”

I frowned. “Which people?”

Tamar shrugged. “Enough that their leaders were excommunicated. Some were even burned at the stake.”

“I’ve never heard that.”

“It was a long time ago. I don’t understand why that idea makes people so angry. Even if the Saints were Grisha, that doesn’t make what they did any less miraculous.”

I shifted in my chair. “I understand what you're saying, Tamar. And it makes sense. A person is a person, no matter what you call them. Except it _does_ matter what you call them. Have a man tell people to pick up weapons to fight, to send their children to certain death, and he'll be stoned on his way out of town. But call him “prince” or “King” and suddenly people will lay down their lives for him. And a King is nothing to a Saint.

“The Apparat once told me that the most powerful force on earth is faith, and as much as I hate the man, he might have been right about that. I've seen the way the pilgrims look at me. If I asked them to pick up a knife and cut their own throats, they might.” _They would,_ a voice in my head amended, but I brushed it aside. “No one should have that much power. I don’t want to be a Saint, Tamar. And I’m not trying to save the world. I just want to find a way to defeat the Darkling.”

“Rebuild the Second Army. Defeat the Darkling. Destroy the Fold. Free Ravka. Call it what you like, but that all sounds suspiciously like saving the world.”

Well, when she put it that way, it did seem a little ambitious. I took a long sip of wine. It was sour stuff compared with the vintages aboard the Volkvolny.

Tamar shrugged. “Someone is always going to have power over other people. It's the way the world works. I'd rather see that power in the hands of people like you and Nikolai than than the Darkling and Ravka's King.”

I toyed with my glass for a time. Then I decided to change the subject. “Mal is going to ask you and Tolya to be members of my personal guard.”

Tamar’s face broke into a beautiful grin. “Really?”

“You would want to?”

“Yes! Of course!”

Her delight was contagious, and I failed to suppress a smile. “Good thing you're practically doing the job as it is, then. It will just to be the three of you until Mal and I find more people we trust. But if you’re going to be guarding me morning and night, I want you to know one thing. And make me a promise.”

“Anything,” she said, beaming.

I couldn't help a small chuckle at her enthusiasm. She reminded me of Mal and me during festivals as children. “If you or Tolya get down on your knees and start worshiping me, I'll disown you,” I said drily. Then I let a small smile onto my lips, but my voice turned weary. “And no more talk of Saints.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the style is off on the longer original parts in this chapter. I have. . .I can't brain. I'll get around to fixing it, eventually. 
> 
> Honestly I'm not super comfortable with the chapter as a whole, but I mentioned I get sick a lot? I get sick a lot. It affects my cognition, and I'm in one of those spells, so this either gets posted sub-par, or I'll keep dic***g with it for another month, and you'll all get bored and leave. But do still feel free to point things out to me, if you have that editor gene in you.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~* * * * * * *~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~So. . .I'm having a debate with myself that I can't resolve.~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~I can't decide whether or not to keep Ivan dead. It wouldn't be a miraculous return, I'd back-edit so he didn't die in the first place (omg how do print authors write anything).~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Votes and/or thoughts? (I'm looking at you, you wonderful lurkers)~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~But not you, Megan. I know your vote *laughs* <3~~


	12. Show Pony

As the crowds of pilgrims grew, they became harder to control, and soon my riding in the coach was no longer optional. Some days Mal accompanied me, but usually he chose to ride outside, guarding the vehicle with Tolya and Tamar. As eager as I was for his company, I knew it was for the best. Being stuck in the lacquered little jewel box always seemed to put him in a bad mood.

Nikolai only joined me on our way into or out of every village, so that we would be seen arriving and departing together. He talked constantly. He was always thinking of some new thing to build—a contraption for paving roads, a new irrigation system, a boat that could row itself. He sketched on any piece of paper he could find, and each day he seemed to have a new way to improve the next version of the Hummingbird.

As uncomfortable as it made me, he was also eager to talk about the third amplifier and the Darkling. He didn’t recognize the stone arch in the illustration either, and no matter how long we squinted at the page, Sankt Ilya wasn’t giving up his secrets. But that didn’t stop Nikolai from speculating endlessly on possible places to start hunting the firebird, or questioning me about the Darkling’s new power.

“We’re about to go to war together,” he said. “In case you’ve forgotten, the Darkling’s not particularly fond of me. I’d like us to have every advantage we can get.”

There was so little for me to tell. I barely understood what the Darkling was doing myself.

“Grisha can only use and alter what already exists. It's supposed to be unbreakable natural law, like the one-amplifier rule. True creation is a kind of power that was supposed to have been impossible. But when Baghra talked about Morozova's stag, she said it came from the oldest science. She called it ‘the making at the heart of the world.’”

“And you think that’s what the Darkling is after?”

“I don’t know. I assume so; I can't imagine what else he could have been trying to tamper with that would have resulted in something as catastrophic as the Shadow Fold.” Nikolai had taken the news of the Darkling's true identity with almost disturbing ease. “All Grisha have limits, no matter how powerful, and when we push them, we tire. But in the long term, using our power makes us stronger. The more power you have, the longer you live. The more power you use, the more radiant you seem after. That kind of thing. I think it's different when the Darkling creates the nichevo’ya. I think it costs him. I saw it when he took Mal and me in Novyi Zem.” I described the strain that had shown on the Darkling’s face, his fatigue. “The power wasn’t feeding him. It was feeding on him.”

“Well, that explains it,” Nikolai said, his fingers beating a tattoo against his thigh, his mind already churning with possibilities.

“Explains what?”

“That we’re still alive, that my father is still sitting the throne. If the Darkling could just raise a shadow army, he’d have marched on us already. This is good,” he said decisively. “It buys us time.”

The question was how much. I thought back to the desire I’d felt looking up at the stars aboard the Volkvolny. Hunger for power had corrupted the Darkling. For all I knew, it might well have corrupted Morozova, too. Bringing the amplifiers together might unleash misery of a kind the world had never seen.

I rubbed my arms, trying to shake the chill that had dropped over me. I couldn’t speak these doubts to Nikolai, and Mal was already reluctant enough about the course we’d chosen.

“Time may not be enough,” I said.

“Os Alta is heavily fortified. It’s close to the base at Poliznaya, and most important, it’s far from both the northern and southern borders.”

“And that helps us?”

“The Darkling’s range is limited. When we disabled his ship, he wasn’t able to send the nichevo’ya to pursue us. That means he’ll have to enter Ravka with his monsters. The mountains to the east are impassable, and he can’t cross the Fold without you, so he’ll have to come at us from Fjerda or Shu Han. Either way, we’ll have plenty of warning.”

“And the King and Queen will stay?”

“If my father left the capital, it would be as good as handing the country over to the Darkling now. Besides, I don’t know that he’s strong enough to travel.”

I thought of Genya’s red kefta. “He hasn’t recovered?”

“They’ve kept the worst of it from the gossips, but no, he hasn’t, and I doubt he will.” He crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side. “Your friend is stunning. For a poisoner.”

“She wasn't my friend,” I said quietly. The words felt like a betrayal. But more than that, I kept to myself. I could hardly tell Nikolai what his father had done to deserve it. Besides, he probably already knew. He seemed to have spies everywhere, especially at court. I wondered if he thought his father was a harmless old lecher, or if he knew what kind of a man the King really was. “And I doubt she used poison.”

“She did something to him. None of his doctors can find a cure, and my mother won’t let a Corporalki Healer anywhere near him.” After a moment, Nikolai said, “It was a clever move, really.”

My brows shot up. “How?”

“The Darkling could have murdered my father easily enough, but he would have risked outright rebellion from the peasants and the First Army. With the King alive and kept in isolation, no one knew quite what was happening. The Apparat was there, playing the trusted adviser, issuing commands. Vasily was off someplace buying up horses and whores.” He paused, looked out the window, ran his finger along its gilded edge. “I was at sea. I didn’t hear the news until weeks after it was all over.”

I waited, unsure if I should speak. His eyes were trained on the passing scenery, but his expression was distant.

“When word of the massacre in Novokribirsk and the Darkling’s disappearance got out, all hell broke loose. A group of royal ministers and the palace guard forced their way into the Grand Palace and demanded to see the King. Do you know what they found? My mother cowering in her parlor, clutching that snuffly little dog. And the King of Ravka, Alexander the Third, alone in his bedchamber, barely breathing, lying in his own filth. I let that happen.”

I looked at him carefully, wondering what I could say. I doubted platitudes would work. “Don't give yourself that much credit, Nikolai,” I said, my tone carefully arch. “No one knew what the Darkling was planning. No one knew what he was or who he was. He's hidden his agenda for hundreds of years. Even if you'd been there, it still would have happened.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. “The Grisha and oprichniki who held the palace on the Darkling’s orders were caught in the lower town, trying to escape. They were executed.”

I felt myself pale slightly and looked down at my hands. “The Apparat?”

“Escaped. No one knows how.” His voice was hard. “But he’ll answer for it when the time comes.”

Again I glimpsed the ruthless edge that lurked beneath the polished demeanor. Did he keep it so hidden because it was the real him? Or was it just another guise?

“You let Genya go,” I said.

“She was a pawn. You were the prize. I had to stay focused.” Then he grinned, his dark mood vanishing as if it had never been. “Besides,” he said with a wink, “she was too pretty for the sharks.”

I looked back at him, but didn't smile.

 

* * * * *

  
Riding in the coach for so long left me restless, frustrated with the pace Nikolai was setting, and eager to get to the Little Palace, to get to the work I wanted to be doing. Still, it gave him a chance to help prepare me for our arrival in Os Alta. Nikolai had a considerable stake in my success as the leader of the Second Army, and he always seemed to have some new bit of wisdom he wanted to impart. It was overwhelming, but I didn’t feel I could afford to disregard his advice, and I started to feel like I was back at the Little Palace library, cramming my head full of Grisha theory.

The less you say, the more weight your words will carry.

Don’t argue. Never deign to deny. Meet insults with laughter.

“You didn’t laugh at the Fjerdan captain,” I observed.

“That wasn’t an insult. It was a challenge,” he said. “Know the difference.”

Weakness is a guise. Wear it when they need to know you’re human, but never when you feel it.

Don’t wish for bricks when you can build from stone. Use whatever or whoever is in front of you.

Being a leader means someone is always watching you.

Get them to follow the little orders, and they’ll follow the big ones.

It’s okay to flout expectations, but never disappoint them.

“How am I supposed to remember all of this?” I asked in exasperation.

“You don’t think too much about it, you just do it.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve been groomed for this since the day you were born.”

“I was groomed for lawn tennis and champagne parties,” Nikolai said. “The rest came with practice.”

“I don’t have time for practice!”

“You’ll do fine,” he said. “Just calm down.”

I let out a growl of frustration and flopped backward against the seat. I wanted to throttle him so badly my fingers itched.

“Oh, and the easiest way to make someone furious is to tell her to calm down.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw my shoe at him.

Outside the coach, Nikolai’s behavior was getting more and more unnerving. He knew better than to renew his marriage proposal, but he was getting increasingly overt in his “allusions” that there might be something between us. With every stop, he grew more bold, standing too close, kissing my hand, pushing my hair back over my shoulder when it was caught by a breeze and letting his hand casually graze my skin, smiling with intimate warmth and affection at me.

In Tashta, Nikolai waved to the massive crowd of villagers and pilgrims that had formed by a statue of the town’s founder. As he moved to help me back into the coach, he slipped his arm around my waist.

“Please don’t punch me,” he whispered. Then he yanked me hard against his chest and pressed his lips to mine.

The crowd exploded into wild cheers, their voices crashing over us in an exultant roar. Before I could even react, Nikolai picked me up by the waist and shoved me into the shadowy interior of the coach and slipped in after. He slammed the door behind him, but I could still hear the townspeople cheering outside. Mixed in with the cries of “Nikolai!” and “Sankta Alina!” was a new chant: _Sol Koroleva,_ they shouted. Sun Queen.

Furious light began to gather against my skin.

I could just see Mal through the coach’s window. He was on horseback, working the edge of the crowd, making sure they stayed out of the road. It was clear from his stormy expression that he’d seen everything.

I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes shut, trying desperately to keep from hitting Nikolai. The glow was hovering around me angrily, but I didn't have the presence of mind to wonder how worried I should be that for the second time, light was coming to me without being called.

“That's quite fetching, you know.” Nikolai said conversationally.

My eyes flew open and I kicked him, hard in the shin. He yelped, but that wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. I kicked him again, careful to hit the same spot.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“No!” I yelled, not bothering to try and keep my voice down. We were rumbling along down the road already, anyway. “And if you ever try something like that again, I won’t kick hit you, I’ll cut you in half!”

He brushed a speck of lint from his trousers. “Not sure that would be wise. I’m afraid the people rather frown on regicide. I'll have to deal with the four dozen soldiers who just heard you threaten my life as it is.”

“You’re not king yet, _Sobachka,”_ I said sharply.

“I don’t see why you’re upset. The crowd loved it.”

 _“I_ didn’t love it!”

He raised a brow. “You didn’t hate it.”

My nostrils flared and the angry light around me was nearly blinding. I lashed out to kick him again. This time his hand snaked out like a flash and captured my ankle. If it had been winter, I would have been wearing boots, but I was in summer slippers and his fingers closed over my bare leg. The light around me nearly vanished, instantly, and my cheeks blazed red. I tried to yank my foot back, but he had a firm grip on my leg.

“Promise not to kick me again, and I’ll promise not to kiss you again,” he said.

“Liar,” I bit out.

“Often, but not in this case.”

“I only kicked you _because_ you kissed me!”

I tried to pull my leg back again, but he kept a hard grip.

“Promise,” he said.

“. . .Fine,” I bit out through gritted teeth. “I promise.”

“Then we have a deal.”

He released my leg, and I drew it back beneath my kefta, hoping my blush wasn't as bad as it felt. “How have you not been murdered in your sleep?” I asked.

“I'm a very light sleeper.”

“Noted. Now get out.”

“It’s my coach.”

“And I'm your ticket to the throne.”

“Which has what effect on the state of ownership of our transportation?”

“My symbol's on the side,” I said. “That makes it half mine. If you don't want to get out, I can split it down the middle so we can share, if you like.”

He regarded me. “Has anyone ever told you that you're terribly violent?”

“Never.”

“It's not as if you're not getting anything out of this, Alina.”

“Your company doesn't count as compensation, Nikolai, much as you'd like to think otherwise. The more time I spend around you, the more I want to demand a fat salary, in fact.”

“Funny,” he mused, “I usually get the opposite response from women. Good thing my sense of self esteem is so healthy or I might be wounded.”

“Maybe one of them can help you take your brother's throne, then,” I said with an acid smile. “I'd say your ego could use the open air right about now. If you don't give it more room, it may crush us both to death.”

“I'm fairly certain the entire Second Army counts as a rather considerable prize, Alina.”

“Which I'm taking so I can kill the man who wants to take the same throne you're after. Next?”

“You know it's almost endearing how hard you're arguing. If I didn't think you'd hit me again, I might venture that some of your anger seems a little forced. Maybe you _really_ didn't hate the kiss.”

My light flared dangerously. “Fine,” I said. “I'll get out.”

I moved to the door, but I barely had my fingers on the latch before Nikolai's hand shot out and gripped my arm. I looked back at him coldly. “The deal was only for kicking, Nikolai. It did not prohibit slapping, punching, biting, burning, scratching, or cutting you in half. I have blistered people and broken noses for less than this,” I added, nodding down to his hand.

He grinned. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you're afraid Oretsev will wonder what we’ve gotten up to. I'm guessing the candle doesn't just light when you're angry,” he said, glancing at the glow radiating from me.

That was exactly what I was worried about. “Mal has nothing to worry about,” I said, my voice deadly quiet.

“Has anyone told him that?”

I took a deep, deep breath. “Next time he goes for your throat, I'm not going to stop him.”

“It’s an act, Alina,” he said with a sigh. “The stronger our alliance, the better it will be for both of us. I’m sorry if it puts a burr in Mal’s sock, but it’s a necessity.”

I gave him a hard look, but relented and sat back down, yanking my arm away from him. “No, it's you trying to maneuver me down a track that I've already said no to, just as much as it is you wanting people to think there's something between us. You were doing plenty to give them that impression. The kiss was not a necessity. Doing it without my permission just proves it.”

“I was improvising,” he said. “I got carried away.”

I snorted. “How often does this innocent act actually work for you? You never improvise. Every single thing you do is tallied and calculated. You put on a show. 'Play to your audience.' You change personalities the way other people change hats! And you know what, Nikolai? It's creepy. Aren’t you ever just yourself?”

“I’m a prince, Alina. I can’t afford to be myself.”

I blew out an annoyed breath and let my head fall to the back of the carriage with a thud. The last of the glow faded from my skin.

Nikolai was silent for a moment and then said, “I. . .you really think I’m creepy?”

It was the first time he’d sounded less than sure of himself. Despite what he’d done, I actually felt a little sorry for him.

I considered him for a long moment. “. . .I wouldn't know,” I said honestly. “I've never met you. I've met about five different people who wear your face, and seen a sixth who I hope to never meet as long as I live. But Nikolai Lantsov? I haven't had the likely exasperating pleasure, if the masks he wears are any indication.”

He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Then he sighed and shrugged. “I’m a younger son, most likely a bastard, and I’ve been away from court for almost seven years. I’m going to do everything I can to strengthen my chances for the throne, and if that means courting an entire nation or making moon eyes at you, then I’ll do it.”

I goggled at him. I hadn’t really heard much after the word “bastard.” Genya had hinted that there were rumors about Nikolai’s parentage, but I was shocked to hear him refer to them so casually. Weakly, I said “I'm sorry it's such a trial flirting with me,” failing spectacularly to cover my reaction.

He laughed. “You’re never going to survive at court if you don’t learn to hide what you’re thinking a bit better. You look like you just sat in a bowl of cold porridge. Close your mouth.”

I shut my mouth with a snap and tried to school my features into a pleasant expression.

“Better,” he said with approval. “And Alina. . .we're about to go to war with an ancient being who controls an army of nearly indestructible monsters. And I still cannot imagine a more dangerous prospect than truly, actually courting you. If nothing else, I've gained a newfound respect for Oretsev. Poor man must have spent half his time in the medical tent while he was winning you over.”

I felt a livid blush climb my cheeks and slouched back against the seat. “That's not exactly how it happened,” I mumbled. Then, at normal volume, “How can you joke about something like that?”

“I wasn't joking. I'm surprised he still has all his limbs.”

I glowered at him. “That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

He sighed. “I’ve heard the whispers since I was a child. It’s not something I want repeated outside of this coach—and I’ll deny it if you do—but I couldn’t care less whether or not I have Lantsov blood. In fact, given all the royal inbreeding, being a bastard is probably a point in my favor.”

I shook my head. He was completely baffling. Was it really possible that it didn't bother him? Or was he just hiding behind humor? It was hard to know what to take seriously when it came to Nikolai.

“Why is the crown so important to you?” I asked. “Why go through all of this?”

“Is it so hard to believe I might actually care what happens to this country?”

“Honestly? Yes.”

He studied the toes of his polished boots. I could never figure out how he kept them so shiny.

“I guess I like fixing things,” he said. “I always have.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but somehow it rang true. “And once they're fixed?”

He seemed to consider that. “I like to know they'll work right on their own. Ravka will be an ongoing series of projects. More than enough to keep me occupied.”

“And you truly think your brother will step aside?”

“I hope so. He knows the First Army will follow me, and I don’t think he has the stomach for civil war. Besides, Vasily inherited our father’s aversion to hard work. Once he realizes what it really takes to run a country, I doubt he’ll be able to run from the capital fast enough.”

Civil war? I didn't believe for a moment he was stupid enough to think Ravka would survive a civil war with the battles it had already been fighting for generations. “And if he doesn’t give up so easily?” I asked carefully.

“It’s simply a question of finding the right incentive. Pauper or prince, every man can be bought.”

More wisdom from the mouth of Nikolai Lantsov. I shook my head and glanced out the coach’s window. I could just see Mal sitting tall in his saddle as he kept pace with the coach.

“Not every man,” I murmured.

Nikolai followed my gaze. “Yes, Alina, even your stalwart champion has his price.” He turned back to me, his hazel eyes thoughtful. “And I suspect I’m looking at it right now.”

I regarded him seriously for a long moment. “If you try to use me to get him to leave, you understand that it won't just be him who goes,” I said.

“That is what you've said, yes.”

I adjusted myself in my seat and looked back out the window. Mal looked comfortable in the saddle, but I could see tension in his shoulders and the line of his jaw, even from here.

“You’re so sure of everything,” I said. “Maybe I’ll decide I want the throne and smother you in your sleep.”

Nikolai just grinned. “Finally,” he said, “you’re thinking like a politician.”

 

 * * * * *

 

Eventually, Nikolai did vacate the coach, but it was hours before we stopped for the night. I didn’t have to seek Mal out. When the coach door opened, he was there, offering his hand to help me down. The square was crowded with pilgrims and other travelers, all craning their necks to get a better look at the Sun Summoner, but I wasn’t sure when I’d have another chance to talk to him.

“How angry are you?” I whispered through a pleasant smile as he led me across the cobblestones. I could see Nikolai on the other end of the square, already chatting with a group of local dignitaries.

“With you? Not at all. But Nikolai and I are going to have words when he isn’t surrounded by an armed guard.”

“Let me know if you want me to distract them. I did kick him, if that makes you feel any better.”

Mal laughed. “You did?”

“Of course I did. Who are you talking to? I kicked him twice. And hard. Found myself missing my army boots for the first time, though. I don't suppose that helps?”

“Actually, it does.”

I smiled genuinely. “Then my day is saved. I’ll stomp on his foot tonight at dinner, and you'll know it's just for you.” That fell well outside the kicking prohibition.

“So. . .no heart flutters or swooning, even in the arms of a royal prince?”

I stopped. When he looked over at me, I regarded him seriously, then remembered we had an audience. I rolled my eyes and motioned for him to follow me. The door to the inn led into a partitioned entryway, so as soon as we were out of sight of the crowds, I turned us invisible and led us back out and around to the side of the large building.

“Why do you think he's a threat to you?” I asked.

He looked at me for a long minute, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He looked down.

When it didn't seem like he was going to say anything, I tilted his face back up to mine, the question in my eyes.

He shifted restlessly. “I don't know what to do with myself here. I don't have a place. And half the time I look at you. . . .” He stopped and a pained look flitted across his face. Then he seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say and started again. “You're the Sun Summoner here. I'm some deserter from the First Army. I love you, and I know you love me. But every time I turn around, someone powerful is trying to take you away. Maybe part of me is just wondering how much longer I'm going to have before you figure out that I'm not good enough for you.”

I was stunned to silence and felt a pain tear through my gut. I kept my hand firm in his so he would know I was here with him while I tried to think of anything I could say. I knew I could argue, but it wouldn't do any good.

He knew he would be my guard, he would have a place once we got to Os Alta. But maybe that wasn't enough. Or maybe having to pretend not to care, to be someone he wasn't, was more than he could ask of himself.

“You're worried I'll get swept away in it and forget who I am,” I said quietly.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I'm worried that you'll find out you were meant to be someone else. Because that woman will have no business with someone like me, and I'll have no place in her world.”

I looked at our intertwined hands, so far from comforting and reassuring, and felt a painful crack in my heart. “I had six months in the Little Palace, Mal,” I said quietly. “They put me in the Darkling's colors, they swarmed around me. I had special training and treatment. I had servants. I saw royal ballets and went to grand feasts. I wore silk and had sugar every day with my tea, and everyone told me that I, all alone, would save the nation, would rescue it from hundreds of years of poverty and war. That I was special. It's true that I had a moment with him,” I didn't need to say who, and didn't want to see Mal tense up at the name, “but I thought you didn't want anything to do with me anymore. I had nothing to hold me to my past, to who I had been. I had to let you go.” I looked up at him, and he was watching me intensely.

“Who came out of that, Mal? Who are you looking at right now, talking to? Am I Alina, or someone else?”

He searched my face for a long time, then closed his eyes and rested his forehead against mine. But rather than answering, he put his lips to mine. The kiss was hesitant at first, something I had never felt from Mal, but quickly grew into a hungry thing with an edge that felt almost possessive. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me tight against him. It was as if he couldn't get me close enough.

When he finally pulled away, the blue in his eyes ringed deep pools of black. We just stood, breathing heavily and staring at one another.

I finally broke the silence and muttered, “Well. . .now that we have that settled, I should probably get in there before they send out a search party.”

He looked at me for another long moment, wonderful heat in his eyes, then huffed a laugh and let me go, though he was obviously reluctant to do so.

“When it comes to the royal prince, Mal,” I said as I carefully straightened my kefta, “I seem, for some strange reason, to be immune. And besides,” I said, and I put a hand on his chest and stood on the balls of my feet to whisper in his ear, “I know what a real kiss feels like.”

I let us fade back into view as I walked away, and left him standing by the side of the building. I could really get used to making Mal blush.

 

 * * * * *

 

The night before we were to enter Os Alta, we stayed at the dacha of a minor nobleman who lived just a few miles from the city walls. It reminded me a bit of Keramzin—the grand iron gates, the long, straight path to the graceful house with its two wide wings of pale brick. Count Minkoff was apparently known for breeding dwarf fruit trees, and the hallways of the dacha were lined with clever little topiaries that filled the rooms with the sweet scent of peaches and plums.

I was provided with an elegant bedchamber on the second floor. Tamar took the adjoining room, and Tolya and Mal were boarded across the hall. A large box waited for me on my bed, and inside, I found the kefta I had finally broken down and requested the previous week. Nikolai had sent orders to the Little Palace, and I recognized the work of Grisha Fabrikators in the luminous shades of gold and embroidery. It looked thick and I expected it to be heavy in my hands, but Materialki craft had rendered the fabric nearly weightless. When I slipped it over my head, it glimmered and shifted like light glimpsed through water. The clasps were small golden suns. It was beautiful, and showy enough that I knew Nikolai would approve. I dreaded what Mal might have to say, though – even the girl I had been a few months ago would rather have stood back and made fun of the kefta with him than even think about wearing it.

The lady of the house had sent a maid to do my hair. She sat me down at the dressing table, clucking and fussing over my tangles as she pinned my tresses into a loose knot. She had a far gentler hand than Genya, but the results weren’t nearly so spectacular. I shoved the thought from my mind. I didn’t like thinking of Genya, of what might have happened to her after we left the whaler, or of how lonely the Little Palace would feel without her.

I thanked the maid and, before I left my room, snapped up the black velvet pouch that had come in the box with my kefta. I slipped it into my pocket, checked to make sure the fetter was hidden by my sleeve, then headed downstairs.

Talk over dinner centered around the latest plays, the possible whereabouts of the Darkling, and happenings in Os Alta. The city had been swamped with refugees. Newcomers were being turned away at the gate, and there were rumors of food riots in the lower town. It seemed impossibly far away from this sparkling place.

The Count and his wife, a plump lady with graying curls and alarmingly displayed cleavage, set a lavish table. We ate cold soup from jeweled cups shaped like pumpkins, roasted lamb slathered with currant jelly, mushrooms baked in cream, and a dish I only picked at that I later learned was brandied cuckoo. Each plate and glass was edged in silver and bore the Minkoff crest. But most impressive was the centerpiece that ran the length of the table: a living miniature forest rendered in elaborate detail, complete with groves of tiny pines, a climbing trumpet vine with blossoms no bigger than a fingernail, and a little hut that hid the salt cellar.

I sat between Nikolai and Colonel Raevsky, listening as the noble guests laughed and chattered and raised toast after toast to the young prince’s return and the Sun Summoner’s health. I’d asked Mal to join us, but he’d refused, choosing instead to patrol the grounds with Tamar and Tolya. Hard as I tried to keep my mind on the conversation, I kept glancing at the terrace, hoping to catch sight of him, and trying not to think about how much I'd rather be out there with them than in here.

Nikolai must have noticed, because he leaned in and whispered, “You don’t have to pay attention, but you do have to _look_ like you’re paying attention.”

I did my best, though I didn’t have much to say. Even dressed in a glittering kefta and made up like a noblewoman and seated beside a prince, I was still a peasant from a no-name town. I didn’t belong with these people, and I didn’t really want to. Still, I gave a silent prayer of thanks that Ana Kuya had taught her orphans how to sit at table and which fork to use to eat snails.

After dinner, we were herded into a parlor where the Count and Countess sang a duet accompanied by their daughter on the harp. Dessert was laid on the side table: honey mousse, a walnut and melon compote, and a tower of pastries covered in clouds of spun sugar that wasn’t meant to be eaten so much as ogled. There was more wine, more gossip. I was asked to summon light, and I clenched down on my growing ire at being asked to perform on command as I cast a warm glow over the coffered ceiling. It was utterly lifeless next to the showings I had put on everywhere else along our trip, but garnered enthusiastic applause. When some of the guests sat down to play cards, I pled a desire for fresh air and quietly made my escape.

Nikolai caught me at the doors to the terrace. “You should stay,” he said. “This is good practice for the monotony of court.”

“I don't recall the previous leader of the Second Army spending much time embroiled in the monotony of court,” I pointed out.

“I thought you wanted to do things differently. He didn't look nearly so lovely in a dress, anyway.”

“Saints need their rest. Especially lovely ones.”

“Are you planning to sleep under a rosebush?” he asked, glancing down toward the garden.

“I'm planning on finding the company I've been missing all night. I’ve been a good little dancing bear, Nikolai. I’ve played along and done my tricks, I've held my tongue and kept my eyes from rolling out of my head. Now it’s time for me to say goodnight.”

Nikolai sighed. “Maybe I just wish I could go with you. The Countess kept squeezing my knee under the table at dinner, and I hate playing cards.”

I gave a very unladylike laugh. “I thought you were the consummate politician.”

“I told you I have trouble keeping still.”

“Then you’ll just have to ask the Countess to dance,” I said with a grin, and slipped out into the night air.

As I descended the terrace steps, I looked back over my shoulder. Nikolai still hovered in the doorway. He wore full military dress, a pale blue sash across his chest. The light from the parlor glinted off his medals and gilded the edges of his golden hair. He was playing the role of the polished prince tonight. But standing there, he just looked like a lonely boy who didn’t want to return to a party by himself.

I sighed and turned, walking back up the terrace steps. A slow smile spread across his face.

“Oh don't get excited,” I said. “I'm not going back in with you. But you looked so sad standing up here by yourself, I thought I'd at least offer to show the Countess how easily I could main her for trying to seduce my pretend fiance.”

He laughed. “I won't lie, that would almost make it worth it.” He paused. “Are you sure you won't stay? Just for a few minutes, at least? I'm sure I could come up with a suitable bribe.”

I put a hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. I smiled at him. “Goodnight, Nikolai.”

I turned and took the curving staircase down to the sunken garden, and carefully avoided looking back again.

I let my net free for what felt like the first time in months and found Mal leaning against the trunk of a large oak.

He stood scanning the manicured grounds as I approached. “Anyone lurking in the dark?” I asked.

“Just me.”

I settled beside him against the trunk. “You should have joined us at dinner.”

Mal snorted. “No thank you. From what I could see, you looked positively miserable, and Nikolai didn’t look much happier. Besides,” he added with a glance at my kefta with a half grin, “whatever would I have worn?”

I sighed dramatically. “I know, I know it's terrible.” I looked down and plucked at the fabric with a half sour look on my face. “Would I be a monster if I said it was growing on me, though? Just the tiniest bit? It's so _shiny._ And if I'm ever stranded in a starving village, I could feed everyone for a year on it.”

“It’s lovely. A perfect addition to your trousseau.” Before I could even roll my eyes, he snagged hold of my hand. “You look beautiful. I’ve been wanting to say that all night.”

I flushed. “Thank you. Its been a relief using my power every day again.”

“You were beautiful back in Cofton with jurda pollen in your brows.”

I snorted, but smiled. Then, oddly, I found myself tugging self-consciously at the hem of my sleeve. “This place reminds me of Keramzin,” I said absently.

“A little. It’s a lot fussier. What exactly is the point of teeny tiny fruit?”

“It’s for people with teeny tiny hands. Makes them feel better about themselves. I'm sure it's a very important outreach program.”

He laughed, a real laugh, and it warmed me. I reached into my pocket and fished around inside the black velvet pouch.

“I have something for you,” I said.

“What is it?”

I held out my closed fist.

“Guess,” I said. It was a game we’d played as children.

“Obviously, it’s a sweater.”

I shook my head.

“A show pony?”

“No, but you're getting close. Think bigger.”

He reached out and took my hand, turning it over and gently unfolding my fingers.

I waited for his reaction.

His mouth tugged up at one corner as he plucked the golden sunburst from my hand. The rough brush of his fingers against my palm sent a shiver up my back.

“For the captain of your personal guard?” he asked.

I cleared my throat nervously. “If. . .if you'll have it. I don't want uniforms. I don't want anything that looks like the Darkling’s guard. Less stuffy this way, too. So I thought the three of you could wear pins. But yours is bigger, and has the embellishment, there.”

For a long moment, we stood in silence as Mal looked down at the sunburst. Then he handed it back to me. My heart plummeted and my face fell.

“Put it on me?” he asked.

I let my breath out in a relieved rush and looked up at him, beaming. I took the pin between my fingers and carefully pressed it through the folds on the left side of his shirt. It took me a couple of tries to get it hooked. When I finished and made to step back, he took my hand and pressed it over the golden sun, over his heart.

“Is that all?” he said.

We were standing close together now, alone in the warm dark of the garden. It was the first moment we’d had to ourselves in weeks.

“All?” I repeated. My voice came out as little more than a breath.

“I believe I was promised a cape and a fancy hat.”

I chuckled. “I don't have them on me, but perhaps I can talk you into accepting a different incentive?”

“Are you flirting?”

“I’m bartering.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll take my first payment now.”

His tone was light, but when his lips met mine, there was nothing playful in his kiss. He tasted of heat and newly ripe pears from the Duke’s garden. I sensed hunger in the hard slant of his mouth, an unfamiliar edge to his need that sent restless sparks burning through me.

I came up on my toes, circling my arms around his neck, feeling the length of my body melt into his. He had a soldier’s strength, and I felt it in the hard bands of his arms, the pressure of his fingers as his fist bunched in the silk at the small of my back and he drew me flush against him. There was something fierce and almost desperate in the way he held me, as if he could not have me close enough. I found myself clinging to him, too.

My head was spinning. My thoughts had gone slow and liquid, but somewhere I heard footsteps. My mind came back in a shock and I quickly bent the light away from us, then immediately pressed my lips back to Mal's. In the next moment, Tamar came charging up the path, and at the look on her face, all the annoyance I felt building at the interruption dropped and I let us come back into view.

“We have company,” she said.

Mal broke away from me and unslung his rifle in a single swift movement. “Who is it?”

“There’s a group of people at the gate demanding entry. They want to see the Sun Summoner.”

“Pilgrims?” I asked, trying to get my kiss-addled brain to function properly.

Tamar shook her head. “They claim to be Grisha.”

“Here?”

Mal placed a hand on my arm. “Alina, wait inside, at least until we see what this is about.”

“Not a chance.” I waved my hand and disappeared from sight.

“You're going to make this job impossible, aren't you?”

“I'll pay well. It only gets better after the first installment.” I said with a grin.

A shout rose from somewhere near the gates.

Neither Tamar nor Mal looked pleased, but they took up positions in front of me – where they had last seen me - and told me to stay behind them.

A crowd had gathered at the dacha’s iron gates. Tolya was easy to spot, towering above everyone else. Nikolai was in front, surrounded by soldiers with their weapons drawn, as well as armed footmen from the Count’s household. A group of people were gathered on the other side of the bars, but I couldn’t see more than that. Someone gave the gate an angry rattle, and I heard a clamor of raised voices.

“Get me in there,” I said and faded back into view. “If they're Grisha, maybe I can calm them down.” Tamar cast Mal a worried glance. I arched a brow. If they were going to be my guards, they would have to follow my orders. Better they get used to it. “Now. I need to see what’s happening before things get out of hand.”

Tamar signaled to Tolya, and the giant stepped in front of us, easily shouldering his way through the crowd to the gates. I’d always been small. Packed between Mal and the twins, with antsy soldiers jostling us from every side, it suddenly felt hard to breathe. I pushed down my panic, peering past bodies and backs to where I could see Nikolai arguing with someone at the gate.

“If we wanted to talk to the King’s lackey, we’d be at the doors to the Grand Palace,” said an impatient voice. “We came for the Sun Summoner.”

“Show some respect, bloodletter,” barked a soldier I didn’t recognize. “You’re addressing a Prince of Ravka and an officer of the First Army.”

This was not going well. I edged closer to the front of the crowd but halted when I saw the Corporalnik standing beyond the iron bars. “Fedyor?” I blinked incredulously.

His long face broke into a grin, and he bowed deeply. “Alina Starkov,” he said. “I could only hope the rumors were true.”

I studied Fedyor warily. He was surrounded by a group of Grisha in dust-covered kefta, mostly Corporalki red, some in dark blue, and a smattering of deep purple.

“You know him?” Nikolai asked.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “He saved my life. And he's not bad in a fight.”

He bowed again. “It was my great honor.”

Nikolai didn’t look impressed. “Can he be trusted?”

“He’s a deserter,” said the soldier beside Nikolai.

“He deserted from the Darkling,” I pointed out. “Would you have preferred he stay loyal?”

“He deserted the King.”

There was grumbling on both sides of the gate.

Nikolai pointed to Tolya. “Move everyone back and make sure that none of those footmen get it in their heads to start shooting. I suspect they lack for excitement out here amid the fruit trees.” He turned back to the gate. “Fedyor, is it? Give us a moment.” He pulled me a short distance from the crowd and said quietly, “Well? Can he be trusted?”

“I don’t know.” The last time I’d seen Fedyor had been at a party at the Grand Palace, just hours before I’d learned the Darkling’s plans and fled in the back of a wagon. I racked my brain, trying to recall what he’d told me then. “I think he was stationed at the southern border last winter. He was a high-ranking Heartrender, but not one of the Darkling’s favorites. He was one of my guards when I was first found, but aside from that, I've hardly had any contact with him.”

“Nevsky is right,” he said, nodding toward the angry soldier. “Grisha or not, their first loyalty should have been to the King. They left their posts. Technically, they’re deserters.”

“So is Mal,” I pointed out. “The country would be in a ditch if he hadn't left his post. That doesn’t make them traitors. I've never much been one for the letter of the law.”

“The real question is whether they’re spies.”

“So what do we do with them?”

“We could arrest them, have them questioned.”

I toyed with my sleeve, thinking.

“Talk to me,” Nikolai said.

“Don’t we want Grisha to come back?” I asked. “Are we giving them much motivation if we just arrest everyone who returns? That won't leave us with much of a Second Army.”

“Remember,” he said, “you’ll be eating with them, working with them, sleeping under the same roof.”

I shook my head. “The Darkling could just as easily have left people behind at the Little Palace. I don't know if he would be this. . .obvious.” I chewed on my lip. “But I don't know that he wouldn't be, either.” I sighed and looked over my shoulder at Fedyor waiting patiently at the gate. “I'm going to have to take a chance sooner or later. You're the expert – what do you think?”

“Once we’re behind the palace walls, all communication will be closely monitored. It’s hard to see how the Darkling can use his spies if he can’t reach them.”

I resisted the urge to touch the scars forming on my shoulder. I took a breath.

“All right,” I said. “Open the gates. I’ll speak to Fedyor alone, and he can speak for the rest of them. Everyone else can camp outside the dacha tonight and join us on the way into Os Alta tomorrow. But if they need any food or medical supplies, I want them provided.”

“You’re sure?”

“I doubt I’ll be sure of anything ever again, but an army needs soldiers.”

“Very good,” Nikolai said with a short nod. “Just be careful who you trust.”

I cast a pointed glance at him. “I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Blah blah excuse-for-late-posting blah reasons blah chapter-quality blah. There's one thing in particular that bothers me, but in case you didn't notice it, I am not going to go out of my way to point it out. xD~~
> 
> ~~I've also been cheating on this fic. That probably doesn't help. >_>~~
> 
> ~~*cough*~~


	13. What They Understand

Fedyor and I talked late into the night, though we were never left alone. Mal, Tolya, or Tamar was always there, keeping watch.

Fedyor had been serving near Sikursk on the southeastern border. When word of the destruction of Novokribirsk reached the outpost, the King’s soldiers had turned on the Grisha, pulling them from their beds in the middle of the night and mounting sham trials to determine their loyalty. Fedyor had helped to lead an escape.

“We could have killed them all,” he said. “But we took our wounded and fled.”

Some Grisha hadn’t been so forgiving. There had been massacres at Chernast and Ulensk when the soldiers there had tried to attack members of the Second Army. Meanwhile, Mal and I had been aboard the Verrhader, sailing west, safe from the chaos I'd helped to unleash.

“A few weeks ago,” he said, “the stories started circulating that you’d returned to Ravka. You can expect more Grisha to seek you out.”

“How many?”

“There’s no way of knowing.”

Like Nikolai, Fedyor believed some Grisha had gone into hiding, waiting for order to be restored, but suspected that most of them had sought out the Darkling.

“He’s strength,” said Fedyor, echoing my own thoughts. “He’s safety. That’s what they understand.”

But I knew it was more than that. I’d felt the pull of the Darkling’s power. Wasn’t that why the pilgrims flocked to a false Saint? Why the First Army still marched for an incompetent king? Sometimes, it was just easier to follow. The Darkling had told me that other Grisha felt a pull toward me, too. Maybe in time, that would become more obvious.

When Fedyor finished his tale, I asked that he be brought dinner and advised him that he should be ready to travel to Os Alta at dawn.

“I don’t know what kind of reception we can expect,” I warned him.

“We’ll be ready, moi soverenyi,” he said, and bowed.

I started at the title. In my mind, it still belonged to the Darkling.

“. . .Fedyor,” I began as I walked him to the door. Then I hesitated. I couldn’t believe what I was about to say, but apparently Nikolai was getting through to me—for better or worse. “I realize you’ve been traveling, but have your people tidy up as much as they can before tomorrow. We're only going to get one first impression, and it's going to matter.”

He didn’t even blink—just bowed again and replied, “Da, soverenyi,” before disappearing into the night.

 _One order down,_ I thought, _a few thousand more to go._  


 * * * * *

 

The next morning, I dressed in my elaborate kefta and descended the dacha’s steps with Mal and the twins. The gold sunbursts glittered from their chests, but they still wore peasant roughspun. Nikolai might not like it, but I wanted to erase the lines that had been drawn between the Grisha and the rest of Ravka’s people. The Darkling had played at that, but it had only been lip service.

Though we’d been warned that Os Alta was teeming with refugees and pilgrims, for once Nikolai didn’t insist that I ride in the coach. He wanted me to be seen entering the city. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to put on a show. My guards and I were all seated on beautiful white horses - mine bore gilded golden tack - and men from his regiment flanked us on both sides, each bearing the Ravkan double eagle and flags emblazoned with golden suns.

“Subtle, as always,” I muttered.

“Understatement is overrated,” he replied as he mounted a dappled gray next to me. “Now, shall we visit my quaint childhood home?”

It was a warm morning, and the banners of our processional hung limp in the still air as we wended our way slowly along the Vy toward the capital. Ordinarily, the royal family would have spent the hot months at their summer palace in the lake district. But Os Alta was more easily defended, and they’d chosen to hunker down behind its famous double walls.

My thoughts wandered as we rode. I hadn’t gotten much sleep and, despite my nerves, the warmth of the morning combined with the steady sway of the horse and the low hum of insects made my chin droop. But when we crested the hill at the outskirts of the town, I came quickly awake.

In the distance, I saw Os Alta, the Dream City, its spires white and jagged against the cloudless sky. But between us and the capital, arrayed in perfect military formation, stood row after row of armed men. Hundreds of soldiers of the First Army, maybe a thousand—infantry, cavalry, officers, and grunts. Sunlight glittered off the hilts of their swords, and their backs bristled with rifles.

A man rode out before them. He wore an officer’s coat covered with medals and sat atop one of the biggest horses I’d ever seen. It could have carried two Tolyas.

Nikolai watched the rider galloping back and forth across the lines and sighed. “Ah,” he said. “It seems my brother has come to greet us.”

We rode slowly down the slope, until we came to a halt across from the masses of assembled men. Despite the white horses and glittering banners, our processional of wayward Grisha and ragged pilgrims no longer seemed quite so grand. Nikolai nudged his horse forward, and his brother cantered up to meet him before he had gotten more than a few feet.

I’d seen Vasily Lantsov a few times at Os Alta. He was handsome enough, though he’d had the bad luck to inherit his father’s weak chin, and his eyes were so heavy-lidded that he always looked very bored or slightly drunk. But now he seemed to have roused himself from his perpetual stupor. He sat straight in his saddle, radiating arrogance and nobility. Next to him, Nikolai looked impossibly young.

I felt a prickle of fear. Nikolai always seemed so in control of every situation. It was easy to forget that he was barely older than Mal and I were.

It had been seven years since Nikolai had been at court, and I didn’t think he’d seen Vasily in all that time. But there were no tears, no shouted greetings. The two princes simply dismounted and clasped each other in a brief embrace. Vasily surveyed our retinue, pausing meaningfully on me.

“So this is the girl you claim is the Sun Summoner?”

Nikolai raised his brows, and I had to suppress an incredulous laugh. To my surprise, he'd had me avoid summoning any light for the approach. He'd said he wanted to make more of a grand entrance, and Vasily couldn’t have given us a better opening. “It’s a claim easy enough to prove.” He nodded to me.

 _Understatement is overrated._ I raised my hand and summoned a blazing wave of light that crashed over the assembled soldiers in a cascade of billowing heat, rippling their banners and causing them to brace themselves in their saddles. They threw up their hands, and several stepped back as horses shied and whinnied. I let the light fade, save for a wide shining halo around me, which I held a moment more. Vasily sniffed.

“You’ve been busy, little brother.”

“You have no idea, Vasya,” replied Nikolai pleasantly. Vasily’s mouth puckered at Nikolai’s use of the diminutive. He looked almost prim. “I’m surprised to find you in Os Alta,” Nikolai continued. “I thought you’d be in Caryeva for the races.”

“I was,” said Vasily. “My blue roan had an excellent showing. But when I heard you were returning home, I wanted to be here to greet you.”

“Kind of you to go to all this trouble.”

“The return of a royal prince is no small thing,” Vasily said. “Even a younger son.”

His emphasis was clear, and the nervousness inside me grew. I hoped Nikolai had planned on Vasily jealously guarding his position when he estimated how easily his brother would abdicate. I didn’t want to imagine what his mistakes or miscalculations might mean for us.

But Nikolai just smiled, utterly at ease. I remembered his advice: Meet insults with laughter.

“We younger sons learn to appreciate what we can get,” he said. Then he called to a soldier standing at attention down the line. “Sergeant Pechkin, I remember you from the Halmhend campaign. Leg must have healed well if you’re able to stand there like a slab of stone.”

The sergeant’s face registered surprise. “Da, moi tsarevich,” he said respectfully.

“‘Sir’ will do, sergeant. I’m an officer when I wear this uniform, not a prince.” Vasily’s lips twitched again. Like many noble sons, he had taken an honorary commission and done his military service in the comfort of the officers’ tents, well away from enemy lines. But Nikolai had served in the infantry. He’d earned his medals and rank.

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Only bothers me when it rains.”

“Then I imagine the Fjerdans pray daily for storms. You put quite a few of them out of their misery, if I recall.”

“I seem to remember you doing the same, sir,” said the soldier with a grin.

I bit down hard against a laugh. In a single exchange, Nikolai had seized control of the field from his brother. Tonight, when the soldiers gathered in the taverns of Os Alta or played cards in their barracks, this was what they would be talking about: the prince who remembered an ordinary soldier’s name, the prince who had fought side by side with them without concern for wealth or pedigree.

“Brother,” Nikolai said to Vasily. “Let’s get to the palace so we can dispense with our greetings. I have a case of Kerch whiskey that needs drinking, and I’d like to get your advice on a foal I spotted in Ketterdam. They tell me Dagrenner is his sire, but I have my doubts.”

Vasily tried to disguise his interest, but it was as if he couldn’t resist. “Dagrenner? Did they have papers?”

“Come have a look.”

Though his face was still wary, Vasily spoke a few words to one of the commanding officers and leapt into his saddle with practiced ease. The brothers took their places at the head of the column, and our procession was moving once again.

“Neatly done,” Mal murmured to me as we passed between the rows of soldiers. “Nikolai’s no fool.”

“It would seem not," I said. "Let's hope we're right, for both our sakes.”

As we drew closer to the capital, I saw what Count Minkoff’s guests had been talking about. A city of tents had sprung up around the walls, and a long line of people waited at the gates. Several of them were arguing with the guards, no doubt petitioning for entry. Armed soldiers kept watch from the old battlements—a good precaution for a country at war, and a deadly reminder to the people below to keep things orderly.

Of course, the city gates sprang open for the princes of Ravka, and the procession continued through the crowd without pause.

Many of the tents and wagons were marked with crudely drawn suns, and as we rode through the makeshift camp, I heard the now-familiar cries of “Sankta Alina.”

I felt foolish doing it, but forced myself put up a glowing halo of shimmering light around myself and my horse, and to lift my hand in greeting. The pilgrims cheered and cried out, waved, many running to keep pace with us, many more bowing as we passed. But some of the other refugees stood silent by the side of the road, arms crossed, expressions skeptical and even blatantly hostile.

 _What do they see?_ I wondered. Another privileged Grisha going to her safe, luxurious palace on the hill while they cook on open fires and sleep in the shadow of a city that refuses them sanctuary? Or something worse? A liar? A fraud? A girl who fled, or who helped ravage their country? A girl who dares to style herself as a living Saint? I couldn't help thinking that if I were in the crowd, I would be standing with them, and not the people who cried and prayed.

I was grateful when we passed into the protection of the city walls.

Once inside, the procession slowed to a crawl. The lower town was full to bursting, the sidewalks crammed with people who spilled onto the street and halted traffic. The windows of the shops were plastered with signs declaring which goods were available, and long lines stretched out of every doorway. The stink of urine and garbage lay over everything. I wanted to bury my nose in my sleeve, but settled for breathing through my mouth.

The crowds here cheered and gawked, but they were decidedly more subdued than those outside the gates. It probably helped that I wasn't glowing like a human-sized lantern.

“No pilgrims,” I observed.

“They’re not allowed within the city walls,” said Tamar. “The King has had the Apparat declared an apostate and his followers banned from Os Alta.”

The Apparat had conspired with the Darkling against the throne. Even if they’d since severed ties, there was no reason for the King to trust the priest and his cult. _Or you, for that matter,_ I reminded myself, feeling a fresh wave of trepidation. _You’re just the one dumb enough to stroll into the Grand Palace and hope for clemency._ I hoped again that Nikolai knew what he was doing, and had a plan for protecting us.

We crossed the wide canal and left the noise and tumult of the lower town behind. I noticed that the bridge’s gatehouse had been heavily fortified, but when we reached the far bank, it seemed that nothing in the upper town had changed. The broad boulevards were spotless and serene, the stately homes carefully maintained. We passed a park where fashionably turned out men and women strolled the manicured paths or took the air in open carriages. Children played at babki, watched over by their nannies, and a boy in a straw hat rode by on a pony with ribbons in its braided mane, the reins held by a uniformed servant.

They all turned to look as we passed, lifting their hats, whispering behind their hands, bowing and curtsying when they caught sight of Vasily and Nikolai. Were they really as calm and free of worry as they seemed? It was hard to fathom that they could be so oblivious to the danger threatening Ravka or the conditions that lay just a few feet from them, or the turmoil just outside the main gates, but it was harder still for me to believe they trusted their King to keep them safe.

Sooner than I would have liked, we reached the golden gates of the Grand Palace. The sound of them clanging shut behind us sent a splinter of panic through me. The last time I’d passed through those gates, I’d been stowed away between pieces of scenery in a horse cart, fleeing from the Darkling, alone and on the run.

The thought that this could all be a trap suddenly occurred to me, and I felt a trill of panic.

 _Stop it,_ I chastised myself. _You’re a Grisha, and you're the Sun Summoner. They need you whether they like it or not. You're not some lost little girl any more. And you could bring this whole palace down around them if you wanted to._ I straightened my spine and tried to steady my heart.

When we reached the double eagle fountain, Tolya helped me from my horse. I squinted up at the Grand Palace, its gleaming white terraces crammed with layer after layer of gold ornament and statuary. It was just as ugly and intimidating as I remembered.

Vasily handed the reins of his mount to a waiting servant and headed up the marble steps without a backward glance.

Nikolai squared his shoulders. “Keep quiet and try to look penitent,” he muttered to us. Then he bounded up the staircase to join his brother.

Mal’s face was pale. I wanted very much to take his hand, but I wiped my clammy palms on my kefta instead, and we followed the princes, leaving the rest of our party behind.

Inside, the halls of the palace were silent as we passed from room to glittering room. Our footfalls echoed on the polished parquet, and my anxiety grew with every step. At the doors to the throne room, I saw Nikolai take a deep breath. I moved my fingers at my side and let a small brush of heat wash over one of his cheeks. He turned his head to the side just enough for me to see the flicker of a grin. His uniform was immaculate, his handsome face cut in the lines of a fairy tale prince. I suddenly missed Sturmhond’s lumpy nose and muddy green eyes.

The doors were thrown open and the footman declared, “Tsesarevich Vasily Lantsov and Grand Duke Nikolai Lantsov.”

Nikolai had told us that we wouldn’t be announced but that we should follow behind him and Vasily. With hesitating steps, we complied, keeping a respectful distance from the princes.

A long, pale blue carpet stretched the length of the room. At the end of it, a group of elegantly dressed courtiers and advisers milled around a raised dais. Above them all sat the King and Queen of Ravka, on matching golden thrones.

 _No priest,_ I noted as we drew closer. The Apparat had always seemed to be lurking somewhere behind the King, but he did not seem to have been replaced with another spiritual adviser.

The King was far frailer and weaker than when I’d last seen him. His narrow chest looked like it had caved in on itself, and his drooping mustache was shot through with gray. But the greatest change had been wrought in the Queen. Without Genya there to tailor her face, she seemed to have aged twenty years in just a few months. Her skin had lost its creamy firmness. Deep furrows were beginning to form around her nose and mouth, and her too-bright irises had faded to a more natural but less arresting blue. Any pity I might have felt for her was eclipsed by my memory of the way she’d treated Genya. Maybe if she’d shown her servant a little less contempt, Genya wouldn’t have felt compelled to throw her lot in with the Darkling. So many things might have been different but for a few simple acts of humanity.

When we reached the base of the dais, Nikolai bowed deeply. “Moi tsar,” he said. “Moya tsaritsa.”

For a long, anxious moment, the King and Queen gazed down at their son. Then some fragile thing seemed to snap in the Queen. She sprang from her throne and bounded down the steps in a flurry of silk and pearls.

“Nikolai!” she cried as she clutched her son to her.

“Madraya,” he said with a smile, hugging her back.

There were murmurs from the watching courtiers and a smattering of applause. Tears overflowed the Queen’s eyes. It was the first real emotion I’d ever seen her display.

The King got slowly to his feet, helped by a footman who guided him down the steps of the dais. He really wasn’t well. I was beginning to see that the succession might be an issue much sooner than I’d thought.

“Come, Nikolai,” said the King, holding his arm out to his son. “Come.”

Nikolai offered his elbow to his father while his mother clung to his other arm and, without ever acknowledging us, they made their way out of the throne room. Vasily followed. His face was impassive, but I didn’t miss the telltale purse of his lips.

Mal and I stood there, unsure of what to do next. It was all very nice that the royal family had disappeared for a private reunion, but where did that leave us? We hadn’t been dismissed, but we hadn’t been told to stay. The King’s advisers studied us with blatant curiosity, while the courtiers tittered and whispered. I kept what I hoped was a confident tilt to my head and clasped my hands behind my back. Hardly ladylike, but at least it kept me from fidgeting.

The minutes crawled by. I was hungry and tired and fairly sure one of my feet was falling asleep, but still we stood waiting. I had to fight the urge to reach for Mal again. At one point I heard shouting coming from the hall. Maybe they were arguing about how much longer to leave us standing there. Perhaps Nikolai's skill for psychological warfare ran in the family. I suppressed a snort at the idea.

Finally, after what must have been the better part of an hour, the royal family returned. The King was beaming. The Queen’s face had gone pale. Vasily looked livid. But the most notable change was in Nikolai. He seemed more at ease and he’d regained the swagger I recognized from our time aboard the Volkvolny.

 _They know,_ I realized. _He’s told them that he’s Sturmhond._

The King and Queen reseated themselves on their thrones. Vasily went to stand behind the King, while Nikolai took his place behind the Queen. She reached up, seeking his hand, and he laid it on her shoulder. _That’s what a mother looks like with her child._ I was too old to be pining for parents I’d never known, but I was still touched by the simple gesture.

My sentimental thoughts were driven from my head when the King said, “You’re very young to lead the Second Army.”

He hadn’t even addressed me. I bowed my head in acknowledgment. “Yes, moi tsar.”

“I am tempted to put you to death immediately, but my son says that will only make you a martyr.”

 _And leave you under the thumb of the Shadow Fold and the Darkling,_ I thought. I forced myself to stay relaxed. I had expected this. The Apparat would love my death, too. One more cheerful illustration for the red book: Sankta Alina on the Gallows.

“He thinks you can be trusted,” the King quavered. “I am not so sure. Your escapes from the Darkling seem a very unlikely story, but I cannot deny that Ravka does have need of your services.”

He made it sound like I was a groundskeeper or a county clerk. _Penitent,_ I reminded myself, and bit back a sarcastic reply. I repeated the word over and over in my head like a chant.

“It would be my greatest honor to continue to serve your Majesty,” I said in what I hoped was a deferential tone.

Either the King loved flattery or Nikolai had done a remarkable job of pleading my case, because the King grunted and said, “Very well. At least temporarily, you will serve as the commander of the Grisha.”

Could it possibly be that easy? “I- Thank you, moi tsar,” I said much less gracefully than I had planned.

“But know this,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “If I find any evidence that you are fomenting action against me or that you have had any contact with the apostate, I will have you hanged without plea or trial.” His voice rose to a querulous wail. “The people say you are a Saint, but I think you are just another ragged refugee! Do you understand?”

 _Another ragged refugee and your best chance of keeping that shiny throne,_ I thought acidly, but I swallowed my pride and bowed as deeply as I could manage. “I shall never give you reason to doubt, your Majesty,” I said, biting back a surprising surge of anger. Was this how the Darkling had felt? Being forced to bend and prostrate before a dissolute and incompetent fool?

The King gave a vague wave of his blue-veined hand. We were being dismissed. I glanced at Mal.

Nikolai cleared his throat. “Father,” he said, “there’s the matter of the tracker.”

I stiffened. I felt light rushing to me, and fought to keet it away.

“Hmm?” said the King, glancing up as if he’d been nodding off. “The. . .? Ah, yes.” He trained his rheumy stare on Mal and said in a bored tone, “You have deserted your post and directly disobeyed the orders of a commanding officer. That is a hanging offense.”

I tensed, but kept my face calm and my eyes on the King, ready to call my power in an instant should we need to make an escape. Beside me, Mal went very still. An ugly thought leapt into my head: _If Nikolai wants to get rid of Mal, this is certainly a clean way to do it._ An answering voice snarled with surprising ferocity, _Let him try._

An excited murmur rose from the crowd around the dais. What had I walked us into? I opened my mouth, but before I could say a word, Nikolai spoke.

“Moi tsar,” he said humbly, “forgive me, but the tracker did aid the Sun Summoner in evading what would have been certain capture by an enemy of the Crown. That was the cause of his desertion.”

“If she was ever really in any danger.”

My hands balled into fists behind my back. Despite my effort, a faint glow was beginning to gather around me.

“I saw him take up arms against the Darkling myself. He is a trusted friend, and I believe he acted in Ravka’s best interest.” The King’s lower lip jutted out, but Nikolai pressed on. “I would feel better knowing that he is at the Little Palace.”

The King frowned.

“What do you have to say for yourself, boy?” he asked.

“Only that I did what I thought was right,” Mal replied evenly.

“My son seems to feel you had good reason.”

“I imagine every man thinks his reasons are good,” Mal said. “It was still desertion.”

Nikolai raised his eyes heavenward, and I slipped mine closed. I had the urge to give Mal a good swift kick. Couldn’t he be a bit less forthright for once?

The King’s frown deepened. We waited.

“Very well,” he said at last, and I felt a rush of tension evaporate. “What’s one more viper in the nest? You will be dishonorably discharged.”

“Dishonorably?” I blurted in disbelief.

Mal just bowed and said, “Thank you, moi tsar.”

The King lifted his hand in a lazy wave. “Go,” he said petulantly.

I opened my mouth to argue, but Nikolai was glaring a warning at me, and Mal had already turned to leave. I clenched my teeth together and hurried to catch up with him as he walked down the blue-carpeted aisle. I wanted to get out of the room before the furious light gathering around me was impossible to miss.

As soon as we left the throne room and the doors closed behind us, I let it explode in an angry burst, then worked to calm myself. I had never heard of a Grisha's power coming unasked this way, but until I figured out what was happening, I was going to have to work to actually control my temper, rather than just its outward appearance.

I said, “We’ll talk to Nikolai. This won't stand.”

Mal didn’t even break his stride. “There’s no point,” he said. “I knew it would be this way.”

“So you wanted to help it along? You don't even want to try?”

“What I want is to move on, Alina.”

“Only because you don't want to hope.”

Mal only shook his head.

He said that, but I saw in the slump of his shoulders that some part of him _had_ still hoped. I wanted to grab hold of his arm, make him stop, put my arms around him and tell him I was sorry, that somehow we’d find a way to make things right. Instead, I hurried along beside him, struggling to keep up, keenly aware of the footmen watching us from every doorway.

We retraced our steps through the gleaming hallways of the palace and down the marble staircase. Fedyor and his Grisha were waiting by their horses. They’d cleaned up as best they could, but their brightly colored kefta still seemed a bit bedraggled. Tamar and Tolya stood slightly apart from them, the golden sunbursts I’d given them sparkling on their roughspun tunics. I took a deep breath. Nikolai had played his part. Now it was my turn.


	14. Because Clearly He's a Closet Vampire

The winding white gravel path led us through the palace grounds, past the rolling lawns and follies, and the high walls of the hedge maze. Tolya, ordinarily so still and silent, squirmed in his saddle, his mouth set in a sullen line.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

I thought he might not answer, but then he said, “It smells like weakness here. Like people getting soft.”

I shot a glance at the giant warrior. “Hopefully we can change that. But. . .to be fair, everyone is soft compared to you, Tolya.”

Tamar could usually be counted upon to laugh off her brother’s moods, but she surprised me by saying, “He’s right. This place feels like it’s dying.”

They weren’t helping to settle my nerves. Our audience in the throne room had left me jittery, and I was still a little taken aback by the anger I’d felt toward the King, though Saints knew he deserved it. He was a filthy old lech who liked to corner servant girls, to say nothing of the fact that he was a rotten, useless leader and had threatened to execute both me and Mal in the space of a few minutes. Even thinking about it, I felt another jab of bitter resentment. But while I knew I had a temper, I was unused to anything like the wave of sudden, almost feral anger I had felt in the King's presence.

My heart beat faster as we entered the wooded tunnel. The trees pressed in on us and, above, the branches wove together in a canopy of green. I'd never seen them like this.

We emerged into bright sunshine. Below us lay the Little Palace.

_I missed it,_ I realized with a start. That was something I hadn't expected. I’d missed the shine of its golden domes, the strange walls carved with every manner of beast, real and imagined. I’d missed the blue lake gleaming like a slice of sky, the tiny island not quite at its center, the white flecks of the Summoners’ pavilions on its shore. It was a place like no other. I was reminded of the feeling of leaving home when I'd run from it months ago.

But not everything was as it had been. First Army soldiers were stationed throughout the grounds, rifles on their backs. I knew they wouldn't do much good against a force of determined Heartrenders, Squallers, and Inferni, but the message was clear: The Grisha were no longer trusted.

A group of servants dressed in gray waited on the steps to take our horses.

“Ready?” Mal whispered as he helped me dismount.

“Not even a little. But why does everyone keep asking me that? Don’t I look ready?”

“You look like you did when I slipped a tadpole into your soup and you accidentally swallowed it.”

I bit back a laugh, feeling some of my worry ease away. “Thanks for the reminder,” I said. “I don’t think I ever paid you back for that.”

I paused to smooth the folds of my kefta, taking my time in the hope that my legs would stop trembling. I had briefly considered some flashy show of light to announce myself, but had discarded the idea almost immediately. Cheap tricks wouldn't work with The Grisha. I climbed the steps, the others trailing behind me. The servants opened the doors wide, and we stepped in. We passed through the cool dark of the entry chamber and into the Hall of the Golden Dome.

The room was a giant hexagon with the proportions of a cathedral. Its carved walls were inlaid with mother-of-pearl and topped by a massive golden dome that seemed to float above us at an impossible height. The four tables were still arranged in a square at the center of the room, and that was where the Grisha waited. Despite their diminished numbers – barely a quarter of what had once been here - they still kept to their Orders, sitting or standing in tightly clustered groups of red, purple, and blue. I frowned.

“They do love their pretty colors,” grumbled Tolya.

“Don’t give me any ideas,” I whispered. “Maybe I’ll decide my personal guard should wear bright yellow pantaloons.”

For the first time, I saw an expression very much like fear cross his face.

We walked forward, and most of the Grisha rose. It was a young group, and with a twinge of unease, I realized that many of the older and more experienced Grisha had chosen to defect to the Darkling. Or maybe they’d just been wise enough to run.

I had anticipated that not many Corporalki would remain. They’d been the highest-ranking Grisha, the most valued fighters, and closest to the Darkling. There were still several familiar faces. Sergei was one of the few Heartrenders who had decided to stay. 

Marie and Nadia stood with the Etherealki. I was surprised to see David slouching in his seat at the Materialki table. I knew he’d had qualms about the Darkling, but that hadn’t stopped him from sealing the stag’s collar around my neck. Maybe that was why he wouldn’t look at me. Or maybe he was just eager to get back to his workshop.

The Darkling’s ebony chair had been removed. His table sat vacant. I steered my small group to stand behind it - for now, I would use the sign of authority the Grisha were used to. I gestured for Fedor and his group to wait off to one side.

Sergei was the first to step forward. “Alina Starkov,” he said tightly. “I’m pleased to welcome you back to the Little Palace.” I noted that he didn’t bow.

I arched a brow slightly at him.

Tension swelled and pulsed in the room like a living thing. Part of me longed to shatter it. It would be easy. I could smile, laugh, embrace the people I knew. Though I’d never quite belonged here, I’d made a decent show of it. But I remembered Nikolai’s warnings and restrained myself. I wasn't here to be their friend, and no longer could be, even if part of me wanted to. _Weakness is a guise._

“Thank you, Sergei,” I said, smiling at him, deliberately informal. “I’m glad to have returned.”

“There have been rumors of it,” he said. “Your return. But just as many of your death.”

“Yes, I passed an impressive collection of my bones for sale on the way here. But as you can see, I am alive and as well as can be expected.”

“It’s said you arrived in the company of the King’s second son,” said Sergei.

There it was. The first challenge.

“Ah, so some rumors _can_ be true,” I said pleasantly. “He aided in my most recent battle with the Darkling.”

A stir went through the room.

“On the Fold?” Sergei asked in some confusion.

“That was the first,” I corrected. “The one I'm referring to was on the True Sea.” A murmur rose from the crowd. I gave them a moment, then held up my hand and, to my relief, they fell silent. _Get them to follow the little orders, and they’ll follow the big ones._ “I have plenty of stories to tell and information to impart,” I said. “But that can wait. I have returned to Os Alta with a purpose.”

“People are talking of a wedding,” said Sergei.

Well, Nikolai would be thrilled.

I let myself laugh. “But not _all_ rumors are true. I didn’t come back to be a bride,” I said. I took a breath, keeping my face carefully calm. This was it. “I have returned to lead the Second Army and to defeat the Darkling.”

Everyone began talking at once. There were a few cheers, some angry shouts. I saw Sergei exchange a glance with Marie. I let them have the room to react. When it quieted he said, “We expected as much.”

I nodded in acknowledgment. “The King has just confirmed my position.” _Temporarily,_ I thought, but did not say.

Another wave of shouts and chatter broke out.

Sergei cleared his throat, “Alina, you are the Sun Summoner, and we’re grateful for your safe return, but you aren’t qualified to run a military campaign.”

I let a small smile play at my lips. “I can assure you, you'll be surprised by what I can do.” It wasn't necessarily a lie. I'd likely surprise everyone. Whether that would be with a collection of mistakes or victories was the real question.

He shook his head. “We will petition the King. The Corporalki are the highest-ranking Grisha and should lead the Second Army.”

“I know I have been away for some time, Sergei, but I seem to recall being dressed in black while I was here,” I said. "Which rather outranked even your red." I glanced down at his kefta.

He shifted on his feet. “You were given no authority.”

“Wasn't I? Or did I perhaps simply choose not to exercise it?”

For the first time, he looked the slightest bit uncertain. “All the same,” he said, “I mean no disrespect, but you are clearly not fit for the post.”

“According to you, bloodletter.”

As soon as I heard that silky voice, I knew who it belonged to, but my heart still lurched when I caught sight of her raven’s wing hair. Zoya stepped through the crowd of Etherealki, her lithe form swathed in blue summer silk that made her eyes glow like gems—disgustingly long-lashed gems.

It took everything in me not to turn around and watch Mal’s reaction. I wasn’t sure what had happened between them in Kribursk all those months ago, but I doubted it had just been lively conversation. I felt my stomach turn at the thought, and hoped I was keeping my face as impassive as I thought.

“I speak for the Etherealki,” said Zoya. “And we will follow the Sun Summoner.”

I struggled not to show my open surprise. She was the last person I would have expected to support me. What game was she playing? Was she here on the Darkling's behest? It seemed an obvious play, if so. I dipped my chin in acknowledgment.

“Not all of us,” Marie piped up weakly. I wasn't surprised, but it still hurt.

Zoya gave a disdainful laugh. “Yes, we know you support Sergei in all his endeavors, Marie. But this isn’t a late-night tryst by the banya. We’re talking about the future of the Grisha and all of Ravka.”

Snickers greeted Zoya’s pronouncement, and Marie turned bright red.

“That’s enough, Zoya,” snapped Sergei.

An Etherealnik I didn’t recognize stepped forward. He had dark skin and a faint scar high on his left cheek. He wore the embroidery of an Inferni.

“Marie is right,” he said. “You don’t speak for all of us, Zoya. I’d prefer to see an Etherealnik at the head of the Second Army, but it shouldn’t be her.” He pointed an accusatory finger at me. “She wasn’t even raised here.”

“That’s right!” called out a Corporalnik. “She’s been a Grisha less than a year!”

I didn't think this would be the best time to point out that I had technically been a Grisha as long as most of them.

“Grisha are born, not made,” growled Tolya.

_Of course,_ I thought with an internal sigh. He would choose now to come out of his shell.

“And who are you?” asked Sergei, his natural arrogance showing through. It was uncomfortable how much he could remind me of Ivan.

Tolya’s hand went to his curved sword. “I am Tolya Yul-Baatar. I was raised far from this corpse of a palace, and I’d be happy to prove that I can stop your heart.”

“You’re Grisha?” Sergei asked incredulously.

“As much as you are,” replied Tamar, her gold eyes flashing.

“Tolya defeated Ivan in open combat,” I said calmly. "Heartrender to Heartrender." The pronouncement was met by more than one gasp and disbelieving jaw-drop.

Sergei recovered quickest. “And what about you?” He asked Mal.

“I’m just a soldier,” Mal replied, moving to stand beside me. “Her soldier.”

I felt the tiniest of smiles show on my face despite myself and my heart soared, warmed at his proclamation. Suddenly I didn't care as much that Zoya was in the room.

“As are we,” added Fedyor, standing at the head of his group of Grisha. It was roughly half the size of the collection in front of us. “We returned to Os Alta to serve the Sun Summoner, not some posturing boy.”

Another Corporalnik got to his feet. “You’re just one more coward who fled when the Darkling fell. You have no right to come here and insult us.”

“And what about her?” cried another Squaller. “How do we know she isn’t working with the Darkling? She helped him destroy Novokribirsk.”

“And she shared his bed!” shouted another.

I saw Mal tense next to me – so slight that I doubted anyone else would see - but allowed myself a laugh of incredulity and got more than one look of doubt and confusion for it.

_Never deign to deny,_ said Nikolai’s voice in my head.

“The Materialki are with you, Alina,” said a graceful voice. I looked in its direction and was pleased and surprised to see Ruslan and his sister among the small group of purple. “All of us.”

I nodded my thanks to him, with a sincere smile.

“No one cares about the Materialki,” someone snapped.

“Just what is your relationship with Nikolai Lantsov?” another voice cut in.

“What was your relationship with the Darkling?” demanded a Fabrikator. Apparently they weren't all with me after all.

“Everyone is so interested in my relationship status all of a sudden,” I said as coolly as I could. “I'm flattered by the attention, but is that really the relevant issue here?” I tried for Nikolai's charming detachment. I hoped I could pull it off, because I could feel my control of the room slipping.

“Of course it is,” said Sergei. “How can we be sure of your loyalty?”

“You have no right to question her!” shouted one of the Summoners.

“Why?” retorted a Healer. “Because she’s a living Saint?”

“Put her in a chapel where she belongs!” someone yelled. “Get her and her rabble out of the Little Palace!”

Tolya reached for his sword. Tamar and Sergei both raised their hands. I saw Marie draw her flint and felt the swirl of Summoner winds lift the edges of my kefta. 

My temper surged to a boil. “Enough!” I barked, letting an explosion of blinding light fill the massive domed hall to emphasize the word.

Everyone stood silent as I let the light fade. I borrowed a page from the Darkling and kept my face cool, and my voice quiet. Let them work to hear me.

“The Second Army has two main concerns at the moment,” I said. “Find and defeat the Darkling, and avoid being crushed by the mess and hatred he left behind for us to deal with. I don't have to tell you that the prejudice Grisha have always faced is nothing compared to the current national sentiment. Sergei,” I said brusquely, turning to him, “do you find yourself better equipped to that end than someone who has openly defied him, faced him in combat more than once, and lived?”

He was silent.

“No,” I answered for him. “Do you have allies in court?”

Again, he said nothing.

“Resources to prepare for the battles to come and influence to help us regain our footing?”

He remained silent. 

“No,” I supplied. “Nor does anyone else here. Except for me.”

The room was quiet for a moment, and I thought I might finally have them. But then a voice called out a question, and the room exploded into voices peppering accusations and demands, Sergei at their head.

I clenched my fists. I thought I’d been ready to face them, as ready as I could be, but I hadn't been prepared for the flood of rage that coursed through me. These people were nothing next to me, and they knew it. They knew they couldn't do what I could, but they insisted on wasting my time by arguing my right to lead them? A few faces had begun turning toward me at the angry light gathering around my body. I felt Tolya and Tamar exchange a look behind me. The wound in my shoulder throbbed, which somehow only added fuel to the fire of my anger, until something inside me broke free. 

I looked at Sergei’s sneering face, and my power rose up with clear and vicious purpose. If they needed a lesson, I would give it to them. Let them argue over the pieces of Sergei’s body. I raised my arm and my hand arced through the air, slicing toward him. The light was a blade honed sharp by my fury.

Time seemed to slow, and some sliver of sanity pierced the bizarre, buzzing haze of my fury. _No,_ I thought in horror as I realized what I was about to do. At the last possible moment, I swerved, throwing the Cut high. I saw Sergei's hair flutter in the wind caused by its passing as the blade missed his head by barely an inch.

A resounding crack like a boom of thunder shook the room. The Grisha screamed and backed away, crowding against the walls.

Daylight poured in through a jagged fissure above us. I’d split the golden dome open like a giant egg, and a wide gash twice as long as Tolya was tall now marred its surface.

A deep silence followed as every Grisha turned to me in terrified disbelief. I swallowed, astonished by what I’d done, horrified by what I’d almost done. I thought of Nikolai’s advice and hardened my heart. They mustn’t see my fear.

“You think the Darkling is powerful,” I said, startled by the icy clarity of my voice. I knew who it reminded me of. “You have no idea what he is capable of. I have seen what he can truly do, I know what he brings to this war, and what is coming for us. I have faced him and lived to tell about it. So have my guards, so has prince Nikolai. Not one of you has any idea.”

I sounded like a stranger to my own ears, but I felt the echo of my power vibrating through me, and I pushed on. I turned slowly, meeting each stunned gaze.

“I don’t care if you think I’m a Saint or a fool or a whore or nothing at all. My command of the Second Army is neither a request nor a discussion. If you want to remain at the Little Palace, you will do so under my command. If you can't stomach that, you will be gone by nightfall, or I will have you in chains.” All was silence in the face of my cool, strangely calm voice. “I am a soldier. I am a Ravkan. I am the Sun Summoner. And I am the only chance any of you have.”

I waited a moment for my words to sink in, then strode across the room and threw open the doors to the Darkling’s chambers, giving silent thanks that they weren’t locked.

I walked blindly down the hall, unsure of where I was going, but eager to get far from the domed hall before anyone saw that I was shaking.

By luck, I found my way to the war room. Mal entered behind me, and before he shut the door, I saw Tolya and Tamar taking up their posts. Fedyor and the others must have remained behind. Hopefully, they’d make their own peace with the rest of the Grisha. Or maybe they’d all just kill each other and I could deal with whoever was left tomorrow.

I paced back and forth in front of the ancient map of Ravka that ran the length of the far wall.

Mal cleared his throat. “I thought that went well.”

A hysterical hiccup of laughter escaped my lips. “You're not serious.”

“Unless you intended to bring the whole ceiling down on our heads,” he said. “Then I guess it was just a partial success.”

I nibbled my thumb and continued pacing. “I had to get their attention, right?”

“So you meant to do that?”

I almost killed someone. I had _wanted_ to kill someone, craved it, hungered for it. It had been the dome or Sergei, and Sergei would have been a lot tougher to patch up.

“More or less,” I said carefully.

Suddenly, all the energy went out of me. I dropped into a chair by the long table and rested my head in my hands. “They’re all going to leave. They're going to leave, aren't they?” I moaned.

“Maybe,” Mal said, “but I doubt it.”

I peeked through my fingers at him. “This has all turned into some kind of bad joke. This may be the worst idea either of us has ever had.”

“I didn’t hear anyone laughing,” Mal said. “For someone who has no idea what she’s doing, I’d say you’re managing pretty well. I don't even think Prince Perfect could find too many things you could have done better.”

I peered up at him. He was leaning against the table, arms crossed, the ghost of a smile playing over his lips.

“I put a hole in the ceiling of my own hall.”

“A very dramatic hole.”

I let out a huff somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “What are we going to do when it rains?”

“What we always do,” he said. “Keep dry.”

A knock came at the door, and Tamar poked her head in. “One of the servants wants to know if you’ll be sleeping in the Darkling’s chambers.”

The warm smile that Mal had coaxed onto my face dropped like a stone. Somehow, I had managed to avoid thinking about this, but I knew I would have to. I just wasn’t looking forward to it. I rubbed my hands over my face and heaved myself out of the chair. Less than half an hour at the Little Palace, and I was already exhausted. “Let’s go take a look. Maybe I won't mind the idea as much after I burn it to the ground so we can start from scratch.”

The Darkling’s quarters were just down the hall from the war room. A charcoal-clad servant led us into the large and rather formal common room furnished with a long table and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs that I remembered from my last night at the Little Palace so many months ago. I saw the seating area in front of the fire where the Darkling and I had talked. The wall I had sat leaning against as I waited for him. The dresser where we. . . . I tried not to cringe at the memories.

Each wall was set with a pair of double doors. “These lead to a passage that will take you out of the Little Palace, moi soverenyi,” the servant said, gesturing to the right. She pointed to the doors on the left and said, “Those lead to the guards’ quarters.”

The doors directly across from us needed no explanation. They stretched from floor to ceiling, and their ebony wood was carved with the Darkling’s symbol, the sun in eclipse.

I didn’t feel quite ready to face that, so I ambled over to the guards’ quarters and peeked inside. Their common room was considerably cozier. It had a round table for playing cards, and several overstuffed chairs were set around a small tile oven for keeping warm in the winter. Through another door, I glimpsed rows of bunk beds.

“I guess the Darkling had more guards,” said Tamar.

“A lot more,” I replied.

“We could bring on some others.”

“I thought about it,” said Mal. “But I don’t know that it’s necessary, and I’m not sure who we can trust.”

I had to agree. I’d put a certain amount of faith in Tolya and Tamar, but the only person I really felt sure of was Mal.

“Maybe we should consider drawing from the pilgrims,” suggested Tamar. “Some of them are former military. There must be a few good fighters among them, and they’d certainly lay down their lives for you.”

“Not a chance,” I replied drily. “The King would hear one whispered ‘Sankta Alina’ and have my neck in a noose. Besides, I don't want followers, and I certainly don't want to keep fanatics close at hand. I'd prefer not to trust my life to someone who thinks I can rise from the dead.”

“We’ll make do,” said Mal.

I nodded. “I want the servants out of gray if the cost will be reasonable. And. . .can someone see about having the roof fixed?”

Matching grins broke out on Tolya’s and Tamar’s faces. “Can’t we leave it that way for just a few days?”

I laughed. “Talk to the Fabrikators. They should know what to do. They also seemed like the group least hungry for my blood. If they say it's structurally sound. . .then yes. We can leave it for a _couple_ of days.” I ran my thumb over the raised ridge of flesh that ran the length of my palm, and remembered the larger one above it on my forearm. “Don’t let them make it too perfect, though, when they do fix it,” I added. Scars made good reminders.

I returned to the main common room and addressed the servant hovering in the doorway. “We’ll eat here tonight,” I said. “Will you see about trays?”

The servant raised her brows, then bowed and gracefully walked off. I cringed. I was supposed to issue commands, not make requests. What did nobles have against 'please' and 'thank you,' anyway? I made an exasperated noise.

I left Mal and the twins discussing a schedule for the watch, and crossed to the ebony doors. I hesitated before them for only a moment. The handles were two thin slivers of crescent moon made of what looked like bone. When I took hold of them and pulled, there was no creak or scrape of hinges. The huge doors slid open without a sound.

A servant had lit the lamps in the Darkling’s chamber. _My chamber,_ I amended. I surveyed the room and let out a long breath. What had I been expecting? A dungeon? A pit? A dark hole? That the Darkling slept suspended from the branches of a tree?

The chamber was hexagonal, its dark wood walls carved into the illusion of a forest crowded with slender trees. Above the huge canopied bed, the domed ceiling was wrought in smooth black obsidian and spangled with chips of mother-of-pearl laid out in constellations and dustings of tiny stars. It was an unusual room and certainly luxurious, but it was still just a bedroom.

The shelves were empty of books. The desk and dressing table were bare. All his possessions must have been taken away - combed through and then burned or smashed to bits, I assumed. I supposed I should have been glad the King hadn’t torn the entire Little Palace down.

I walked to the side of the bed and smoothed my hand over the cool fabric of the pillow. It was good to know that some part of him was human, that he laid his head down to rest at night like everyone else. But could I really sleep in his bed, beneath his roof?

With a start, I realized that the room smelled like him. I had never even noticed that he had a scent. I shut my eyes and inhaled. What was it? The crisp edge of a winter wind. Bare branches. The smell of absence, the smell of night.

The wound at my shoulder prickled, and I opened my eyes. The doors to the chamber were shut. Someone must have closed them after me.

“Alina.”

I whirled. The Darkling was standing on the other side of the bed.

My eyes went wide in horror. I clapped my hands over my mouth.

_This isn’t real,_ I told myself. But I was breathing like I had just run. My heart was hammering. _It’s just another hallucination. Just like on the Fold._ “No,” I whispered. “No, no. . . .”

“My Alina,” he said softly. His face was beautiful, unscarred. Perfect.

I shook my head in disbelief, in denial. This was different from the Fold, from the field outside of Kribursk. True, no one but me had seen him in either place, but now he was here, inside an empty room with no way in or out but past my guards. I knew he wasn't real, he couldn't be, but he looked every bit as solid and magnetic, as commanding, as the real Darkling ever had.

He walked slowly around the bed. His footsteps made no sound.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed my palms against them, counted to five. But when I opened them again, he was standing right before me. A small, choked moan loosed from my throat.

“No,” I breathed. I took a step backward, felt the press of the wall behind me. I jumped. “You can't. . .you're not real. You're not here.”

He reached out. I squeezed my eyes shut. _He can’t touch me,_ I told myself. _His hand will just pass through me like a ghost. It’s not real._

“You cannot run from me,” he whispered.

His fingers brushed my cheek. Solid. Real. I felt them.

Terror shot through me. I screamed and threw up my hands, sending light blazing over the room in a brilliant wave that shimmered with burning heat. The Darkling vanished.

Footsteps clattered in the room outside. The doors were thrown open. Mal and the twins charged in, weapons in hand.

“What happened?” Tamar asked, scanning the empty room.

I was shaking. As I had that day outside of Kribursk, I froze for a moment, unable to summon an answer. “Nothing,” I finally said, forcing the word past my lips, thankful and surprised that at least my voice sounded normal. I buried my hands in the folds of my kefta to hide their trembling. “Just. . .shouting out the frustrations of the day.” I said with what I could tell was a tight, flimsy smile. 

“We saw the light and—”

“I was playing around,” I said. “It's a bit gloomy in here. All the black, you know. Man had very depressing taste.”

They stared at me for a long moment. Then Tamar looked around. “It is pretty grim. You may want to think about redecorating.”

“Definitely on my list.”

The twins took another glance around the room and then headed out the door, Tolya already grumbling to his sister about dinner. Mal stood in the doorway, waiting.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

I swallowed thickly. “Can you. . .can you shut the doors and just hold onto me for a minute? Please?”

Before I could move, he had pushed the doors closed behind him and I was wrapped in his arms, surrounded by his familiar, comforting scent. I buried my face against him, and he held me until the tremors calmed and then stopped, alternating between stroking my hair and moving his hand soothingly over my back.

I pulled away, but kept my arms around him. “I need something in here to get rid of the smell,” I said. “It smells like him.”

“I'll take care of it,” he said. He was watching my face closely. I put my fingertips to his cheek.

I knew he wouldn’t ask me to explain this time. And he shouldn’t have had to. I should be offering him the truth without having to be asked. But what could I say? That I was seeing things? That I might be going mad? That he was right, and everything all the way back to the second amplifier might have been a horrible idea? That I would never be safe, never be free of the Darkling no matter how far we ran? Or that I was as broken as the Golden Dome, but something far worse than daylight had crept inside of me?

I met his eyes, my brows drawn together, but stayed silent.

Mal gave a single shake of his head, then simply walked away.

I stood alone in the center of the Darkling’s empty rooms.

_Call to him,_ I thought desperately. _Call him back. Tell him something. Tell him anything._

Mal was just a few feet away, on the other side of that wall. I could say his name, bring him back, and tell him everything—what had happened on the Fold, what I'd seen outside of Kribursk, what I’d almost done to Sergei, what I'd felt in the throne room, what I’d seen just moments before. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't make any sound come out. The same words came to me again and again, every time I tried to think of something to say.

_Alina. My Alina. You cannot run from me._


	15. The Great Herring Decree

I woke the next day to the sound of angry voices. For a moment, I had no idea where I was. The darkness was near perfect, broken only by a thin crack of light from beneath the door.

Then reality returned. I sat up and blearily waved a hand to summon soft light throughout the room. I surveyed the dark silk bed hangings, the slate floor, the carved ebony walls. I really was going to have to make some changes. This room was just too depressing to wake up in. Part of my mind thought that it was no wonder the Darkling had turned psychotic - if I had to wake up to this every morning century after century, I'd probably go insane, too. It was strange to think that I was actually in the Darkling’s chambers, that I’d spent the night in his bed. That I’d seen him standing just inches from where I lay. Absently, my fingertips brushed the place where I had felt his hand on my cheek.

Enough of that. I threw off the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed, taking a moment to raise my arms over my head and stretch. I didn’t know whether the visions were a product of my own mind or some real attempt to manipulate me, but there had to be a rational explanation for them. Maybe the nichevo’ya bite had infected me with something, placed some shadow of him in me or given him some sort of control over my mind. If that was the case, then I’d have to find a way to cure it, fast. Or maybe I'd get lucky and the effects would wear off with time. I snorted a laugh at the idea.

The argument outside my door grew louder. I thought I recognized Sergei’s voice and Tolya’s angry rumble. I put on the embroidered dressing gown that had been left for me at the foot of the bed, smoothed out the worst of my morning hair, checked to make sure the fetter on my wrist was hidden, and threw open my doors.

I almost ran right into the twins. Tolya and Tamar were standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking a small group of angry Grisha from entering my chamber. Tolya’s arms were crossed, and Tamar was shaking her head as Sergei and Fedyor loudly made their case. I was distressed to see Zoya beside them, accompanied by the dark-skinned Inferni who had challenged me the previous day. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.

“I have to admit,” I said, raising my voice just enough to be heard. The shouting died down immediately, and I went on in a light tone. “This isn't what I thought my welcome party would look like. I thought there would be more streamers. Less angry mobs. Maybe a bowl of punch.”

Before I had finished speaking, Sergei strode forward, clutching a piece of paper in his hand. I recognized my own careful writing and the remnants of the gold sunburst seal that Nikolai had provided for me. Tamar moved to block him, but I waved her off, suppressing a hard smile. I'd been expecting an unhappy response, just not quite _so_ unhappy. And I certainly hadn't anticipated being woken by it - it had taken me so long to calm my nerves last night that I must have really overslept.

“I see you've read my notice,” I said brightly.

“This is unacceptable,” Sergei huffed.

I’d sent out word the previous night that I would be convening a war council. Each Grisha Order was to elect two representatives to attend. I was pleased to see they’d chosen Fedyor as well as Sergei, though some of my good will wore off when the older Grisha chimed in.

“He’s right,” said Fedyor. “The Corporalki are the Grisha’s first line of defense. We’re the most experienced in military affairs and should be more fairly represented.”

I arched a cool brow at his idea of "fairness."

“We’re just as valuable to the war effort,” declared Zoya, her color high. Saints, even in a snit, she looked gorgeous. I’d suspected she would be chosen to represent the Etherealki, but I certainly wasn’t happy about it. “If there are going to be three Corporalki on the council,” she said, “then there should be three Summoners, too.”

Everyone started shouting again. I noted that no Materialki hadn’t shown up to complain. As the lowest Grisha Order, they were probably just glad to be included. Or possibly they were too caught up in their work to be bothered. I'd only met one during my time here who wasn't nearly as obsessed with their projects as David.

The barest edge of sleep still clung to my brain. I wanted my breakfast, not an argument. I couldn't help but be reminded of squabbling children, or the way some of these very people had jockeyed for my favor when I had been new here, pushing and bickering over everything, no matter how asinine. But I knew this had to be addressed. I intended to do things differently—and they might as well know just how differently or this effort would fall apart before it even began.

I let them argue for a few moments before I held up my hand and they quieted instantly. At least I had that trick down. Or maybe they were just afraid I would put another hole in the ceiling. At the moment, I didn't really care which, so long as they shut up. “There will be two Grisha from each Order,” I said calmly. “No more, no less.”

“But—” began Sergei.

“Do I look like the Darkling, Sergei?” I snapped, a dull glow surging to me despite my best effort to stay calm.

He pinched his lips.

“No,” I said, an echo of our exchange from the previous day. I waited until I no longer looked like a human lantern to go on. “He has changed. His strategies and priorities have changed. If you want to have any hope of besting him, of anything even remotely resembling the Grisha order surviving, you are going to have to change, too. We all are. And it won't only be the war council that is different. I suggest you make your peace with it sooner rather than later, or you're going to have some very unpleasant months ahead of you.

"Two Grisha from each Order,” I enunciated. “In addition, the Orders will no longer sit separately at meals. You will sit together, you will eat together, and you will fight together.”

They just stood there, gaping. At least I’d gotten them to shut up. I allowed a smile to twitch at one corner of my mouth.

“The Fabrikators will be starting combat training this week,” I went on, “and nonessential rationed supplies will be restricted for all of us, myself included, just as they are for every other Ravkan citizen. They will be rerouted to soldiers at the front. The same goes for Fabrikator requisitions. That will be enforced at the Grand Palace, as well.” At least, I hoped it would. I hadn't meant to blurt it out before speaking to Nikolai.

I took in their horrified expressions. The Materialki weren’t considered warriors, so no one had ever bothered to teach them to fight. It felt like a missed opportunity to me, and if nothing else, healthier bodies often meant healthier minds. _Use whatever or whoever is in front of you._ And I had had more than enough of the Darkling's lip service “every man” treatment of the Grisha. Sugar and other luxuries had been rationed for over one hundred years, and they were hardly essential to a Grisha's ability to train or study or fight. Let the soldiers have sugar in their morning tea while they wondered if they would see the next day's sunrise. Let the ones being shot at wear the bulletproof clothing.

“I'm glad we cleared that up,” I said. “Now I'm going to eat my breakfast.”

Desperate for a cup of tea, I waited until Tolya cleared a path through the affronted Grisha before walking to the table where a breakfast tray had been laid with covered dishes for me. I lifted one of the lids: rye and herring. _Cold_ rye and herring. I narrowed my eyes. This morning was not getting off to a good start.

“But. . .but it’s always been this way,” sputtered Sergei.

“You can’t just overturn hundreds of years of tradition,” protested the Inferni I had seen next to Zoya.

“We are at war with an ancient power beyond reckoning," I said, "and you want to squabble over seating arrangements? Truly? Please tell me the Grisha have not become so spoiled and idiotic as that.” I was beginning to see what Tolya had meant yesterday as we'd made our way here from the Grand Palace.

“That’s not the point,” said Zoya. “There’s an order to things, a way of doing them that—”

They all started gabbling again—about tradition, about the way things were done, about the need for structure and people knowing their places.

I set the cover back down on the dish with a loud clang.

I smiled, and it was not a friendly expression. “And when those traditions were new, there were reasons for them, as there are reasons for the decisions I have made. If we cannot change as the times demand, we die out. I, for one, have no intention of going quietly. These changes may be temporary, or they may be permanent. Either way, I will tell you, and I will not repeat myself again: this is the way it is now done,” I said slowly, rapidly losing patience. “No more Corporalki superiority. No more Etherealki snobbery. And no more _herring.”_

Zoya opened her mouth, but then caught my expression and seemed to think better of it.

“Out,” I said, my tone final. “I wish to eat in peace. Quibble among yourselves, and by all means, if you can come up with a better argument against my changes than 'because we don't like it,' or 'because this isn't how it's done,' feel free to present it to me. But," I went on, my voice taking a hard edge, "you _will not_ swarm my chambers like this again unless the hall is burning down around your ears and I am the only thing in all the world that can save you. You will conduct yourselves with the respect we all deserve. Now go.” I sat down at the table and proceeded to ignore them.

For a moment, they just stood there. Then Tamar and Tolya stepped forward, and to my continuing amazement, the Grisha did as they were told. Zoya looked peeved, and Sergei’s face was stormy, but they all shuffled out of the room. Once they were gone, I let myself sag back in my chair with a loud puff of breath.

Seconds later, Nikolai appeared in the doorway, and I realized he’d been eavesdropping in the hall.

“Nicely done,” he said. “Today shall be forever remembered as the date of the Great Herring Decree.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Not the smoothest delivery, though.”

“It's my first day on the job. Don't ambush me at breakfast if you want smooth delivery,” I said, tearing eagerly into a roll. I went on around a huge mouthful of bread. “You should have heard me yesterday. I made jokes and everything. Tore a hole in the roof for dramatic effect. But I've always had good luck with 'grouchy.' It's a nice fallback. Reliable.”

A servant rushed forward to bring me a cup of tea from the samovar. To my surprise, he wasn't in gray. His robe was a color between gold and cream, with subtle embroidery at the ends of the sleeves in the royal pale blue. I would have to thank whoever had thought of that. Given the hostility toward the Second Army at the Grand Palace, it had been a brilliant touch. As the servant moved, I sucked in a quiet breath - the robe shifted in a myriad of soft, warm colors whenever the light hit it just so, and the effect was stunningly beautiful.

I eyed Nikolai surreptitiously as he took a chair and sat without being asked. This had him written all over it. It was flashy, it kissed up to the person on whose good graces we still existed, and it could easily be called symbolic of the new leader of the Second Army: it seemed simple, humble, not unlike a nameless soldier from the First Army, but becoming something breathtaking with the addition of light.

I hadn't expected the uniforms to change overnight, but couldn't say I was sorry to know there would be no more charcoal-robed figures in the Little Palace. The tea the servant gave me was blissfully hot, and though I reached immediately for the sugar, I added it conservatively. I wanted to enjoy the indulgence now that I was back here - it had been one of my favorite parts of life at the Little Palace - but it would be gone soon enough. Better not to let myself get used to it.

“Speaking of grouchy,” he said, “my mother has been in a suspiciously good mood for someone who just found out she won't be able to get the Fabrikators to touch up her wardrobe or make jeweled accessories for her little dog any longer.”

I felt a blush creep up my cheeks. “They caught me off guard,” I muttered, managing to sound apologetic and petulant at the same time. “I wasn't planning on announcing anything until I had a chance to talk with you. Care to find out exactly how persuasive you can be? I figured if you could get the King and Queen to agree, the rest of the court would fall in line. I'm tired of their time in the workshop being wasted on fripperies when we've been at war for generations. There's no excuse for it.”

“I agree,” he said with a cast that looked suspiciously like approval and respect. “But it isn't them I'm worried about,” he added, a pained expression crossing his face. “Do you have any idea how much work it takes for a lowly otkazat'sya to look this good?”

I snorted. “Please. Not only would I bet money on your wardrobe being large enough to outfit an entire unit of men for a year, but you looked better when we were on the road for weeks than I ever saw a noble look in their finest the entire time I lived here.”

“Alina. Did you just pay me a compliment? Are you saying,” he paused, affecting an almost convincing look of mild astonishment, “. . .you find me handsome?”

“That depends,” I said drily without looking at him. I took a sip of tea. “I once said a mule looked good. I called a spider pretty. And then there was the dirty little girl in pigtails who was missing half of her teeth. So if that's your measure, then sure. You can tell everyone back home that the Sun Summoner thinks you're cute.”

“I am not 'cute,'” he said as if deeply offended. “I am roguish and dashing and handsome, and I'll thank you to remember the difference." He added, "Are you really not going to eat these?” He had begun piling herring onto his plate before the question was even out of his mouth.

“Revolting,” I said with a shudder.

Nikolai took a big bite. “You don’t survive at sea if you can’t stomach fish.”

I snorted. “Don’t you play the poor sailor with me. I ate on your ship, remember? Sturmhond’s chef was hardly serving up salt cod and hardtack.”

He gave a mournful sigh. “I wish I could have brought Burgos with me. The court kitchens seem to think that a meal isn’t complete if it isn’t swimming in butter.”

“Perhaps you can follow my lead and get them to spare some for the common man,” I said archly. “Or at least the soldiers. Boost morale and save your poor overtaxed royal palette at the same time.” I shook my head, taking another sip of tea. “Only a prince would complain about too much butter.”

“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully, patting his flat stomach. “Maybe a royal gut would lend me more authority.”

I laughed and then nearly jumped as the door opened and Mal entered. He stopped when he saw Nikolai.

“I didn’t realize you’d be dining at the Little Palace, moi tsarevich.” He bowed stiffly to Nikolai and then to me.

My brow furrowed. “You don’t have to do that,” I said with half a chuckle.

“Yes he does.”

I stiffened, the mirth dropping from my face. "No," I said to Mal, my voice flinty, "you don't. Not when it's just us and the twins."

Mal shrugged. “You heard Prince Perfect,” he said, and joined us at the table.

"Since when do you listen to him over me?"

"Since we're both playing our parts while we're here," he said with a dry smile. He stole a piece of bread from my plate and stuffed it into his mouth, his expression turning playful.

Nikolai grinned. “I’ve had a lot of nicknames, but that one is easily the most accurate.”

I made a disgusted sound. “If accuracy is your criteria, you're not going to like the monikers I have for you.” I looked at Mal. “Nikolai has kindly been saving me from the disgusting chum they continue serve for breakfast here. Between his bedroom décor and his meals I've become much less surprised that the Darkling turned evil. When did you get up?” I asked curiously. “You and the twins' night was almost as late as mine, I figured you'd still be asleep.”

"Is that why you're just now eating breakfast?" Nikolai asked.

I nodded, stuffing a piece of buttered bread into my mouth.

“I’ve been up for hours, roaming around, looking for something to do,” Mal said.

I bit down on an entirely inappropriate suggestion that involved my bed chamber for how he could have used his morning.

“Excellent,” said Nikolai. “I’ve come to issue an invitation.”

“Is it to a ball?” asked Mal, snagging the remaining bit of roll from my plate. I snapped my teeth at him lightly, and he winked at me. “I do so hope it’s to a ball.”

“While I’m sure you dance a magnificent waltz, no. Boar have been spotted in the woods near Balakirev. There’s a hunt leaving tomorrow, and I’d like you to go.”

“Short on friends, your highness?”

“And long on enemies,” replied Nikolai. “But I won’t be there. My parents aren’t quite ready to let me out of their sight. I’ve spoken to one of the generals, and he’s agreed to have you as his guest.”

Mal leaned back and crossed his arms, a low hum coming from deep in his chest. “I see. So I'll go frolicking in the woods for a few days, and you'll stay here,” he said with a pointed glance at me.

I bit my lips to hide a smile. I had to admit it seemed like an obvious ploy. Too obvious for Nikolai, really.

“You know, for two people with a love eternal, you’re awfully insecure,” Nikolai said. “Some of the highest-ranking members of the First Army will be in the hunting party, and so will my brother. He’s an avid hunter, and I’ve seen for myself now that your reputation as a tracker in the First Army _undersold_ you, if anything.”

“Leaving would make my actual job, you know, guarding the salvation of our country, a little difficult. Fun as running around with a bunch of pampered royals always is.” This would not be the first hunting trip full of nobles that Mal had been commandeered to lead around.

“Tolya and Tamar can manage while you’re away.” I glowered at his casual reassignment of my personal guards. “And this is a chance for you to make yourself useful.”

I clenched my jaw and let my eyelids slip closed as my eyes rolled heavenward. _Great,_ I thought. _Just perfect._ I opened my eyes to see Mal's narrowed. “You know,” I said to Nikolai, “you'd be positively dangerous if you turned your powers to good, instead of spending all your energy on provoking my boyfriend. I'd rather not part with the captain of my guard, thank you. The First Army has plenty of trackers who can handle boar, elusive and silent though they are.”

“And what are you doing to be useful, your highness?” Mal asked.

“I’m a prince,” said Nikolai. “Being useful isn’t part of the job description. But,” he added, “when I’m not lazing about being handsome, I’ll be trying to better equip the First Army and gather intelligence on the Darkling’s location. Word has it he’s entered the Sikurzoi.”

Mal and I both perked up at that. The Sikurzoi were the mountains that ran along much of the border between Ravka and the Shu Han.

“You think he’s in the south?” I asked.

Nikolai popped another piece of herring into his mouth. “It’s possible,” he said. “I would have thought he’d be more likely to ally with the Fjerdans. The northern border is far more vulnerable. But the Sikurzoi are a good place to hide. If the reports are true, we need to move to forge an alliance with the Shu as fast as possible so that we can march on him from two fronts.”

“You want to take the war to him?” I said, surprised.

“Better than waiting for him to be strong enough to bring it to us.”

“I like it,” Mal said with grudging admiration. “It’s not something the Darkling would expect.”

I was reminded that, while Mal and Nikolai had their differences, Mal and Sturmhond had been fast on the way to becoming friends.

Nikolai took a sip of tea and said, “There’s also disturbing news coming out of the First Army. It seems a number of soldiers have found religion and deserted.”

I felt my face slacken. “Please tell me you don’t mean. . . .”

Nikolai nodded. “They’re taking refuge in the monasteries, joining the Apparat’s cult of the Sun Saint. The priest is claiming you’ve been taken prisoner by the corrupt monarchy.”

I let loose a curse that had Nikolai raising his brows at me. Mal had heard me go off enough times that I doubted he even noticed. “Of course he is,” I said. “This is ridiculous.”

“Actually, it’s completely plausible, and it makes for a very satisfying story. Needless to say, my father is not pleased. He flew into quite a rage last night, and he’s doubled the price on the Apparat’s head.”

I groaned. “This is. . .bad.” I plopped my head down into my hands.

“It is,” Nikolai admitted. “You can see why it might be wise for the captain of your personal guard to start forging alliances within the Grand Palace.” He turned his keen gaze on Mal. “And that, Oretsev, is how you can be of use. As I recall, you rather charmed my crew and my soldiers, so perhaps you could pick up your bow and play the diplomat instead of the jealous lover.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good boy,” said Nikolai.

“Oh, for-” I began.

“Watch yourself, Nikolai,” Mal interrupted softly. “Princes bleed just like other men.”

Nikolai plucked an invisible piece of dust from his sleeve. “Yes,” he said. “They just do it in better clothes.”

Mal stood, his chair scraping the floor. “I need some air.”

He strode out the door, all pretense of bowing and titles forgotten.

I threw down my napkin. “What is the matter with you?" I asked Nikolai angrily. “Why do you bait him like that? Are you trying to prove you're better than him? Annoy him into leaving?”

“Did I?” Nikolai said, reaching for another roll. I made a tight fist as I thought about sticking a fork through his hand.

“Don’t keep pushing him. It's pushing _me,_ and last I checked, I was someone whose good graces you cared about. Lose Mal, and you lose me. So knock it off. And for Saints' sake, don't make me tell you again. What is that, three times?”

“He needs to learn what the rules are here. If he can’t, then he becomes a liability. The stakes are too high for half measures.”

I felt the gooseflesh rise on my arms and an involuntary shiver skittered over me. Somberly, I said, "When you talk like that, you sound exactly like the Darkling. And this isn't the first time.”

“If you ever have trouble telling us apart, look for the person who isn’t torturing you or trying to kill Mal. That will be me.”

“Are you so sure you wouldn’t? If it got you closer to what you want, to the throne and your chance to save Ravka, are you certain you wouldn’t walk me up the gallows steps personally? Torture and kill me if you 'had' to?”

I expected another of Nikolai’s flip replies, but he looked like I’d punched him in the gut. He started to speak, stopped, then shook his head.

“Saints,” he said, his tone somewhere between bewilderment and disgust. “I really don’t know.”

I slumped back in my chair with a huff of a laugh. His admission should have made me furious, but instead I felt the anger drain out of me. Maybe it was his honesty. Maybe it was his willingness to be honest with himself. Or maybe it was because I’d begun to worry what I might be capable of. “I imagine there was a time when the Darkling didn't know, either,” I said, half to myself.

We sat there in silence for a long minute. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and slowly got to his feet. At the doorway, he paused.

“I’m ambitious, Alina. I’m driven. But I hope. . . I hope I still know the difference between right and wrong.” He hesitated. “I offered you freedom, and I meant it. If tomorrow you decided to run back to Novyi Zem with Mal, I’d put you on a ship and let the sea take you.” He held my gaze, his hazel eyes steady. “But I’d be sorry to see you go.”

I huffed a dry laugh. “You'd be sorry to see your leverage go,” I corrected.

“Can't both be true?” He vanished into the hall, his footsteps echoing over the stone floors.

I sat there for a while, picking at my breakfast, mulling over Nikolai’s parting words. Then I gave myself a shake. I didn’t have time to dissect and weigh his motives. In just a few hours, the war council would meet to talk strategy and how best to raise a defense against the Darkling. I had plenty to do to prepare, but first I had a visit to pay. One I was dreading and fearing more than anything I'd done so far since returning.

 

* * * * *

 

As I fastened the sun-shaped buttons of my gold kefta, I gave a rueful sigh. Baghra would waste no time mocking my new pretensions. I'd thought about borrowing someone else's clothes or even a blue summoner's robe, but truthfully I was so afraid to see her again that I had myself convinced she'd mock me no matter what I wore. Still, I needed to add something to my wardrobe that wasn't disgustingly ostentatious. After smoothing the waves of my hair, I slipped out of the Little Palace through the Darkling’s entrance and crossed the grounds to the lake.

The servant I’d spoken to said that Baghra had taken ill shortly after the winter fete and that, since then, she’d stopped accepting students. Of course, I knew the truth. The thought of the Darkling's rage when he’d discovered her deception sat like a stone in my stomach.

When I’d tried to press the jittery maid for details, she’d bobbed an inelegant curtsy and hurried from the room. Still, Baghra was alive, and she was here. The Darkling could destroy an entire town, but it seemed even he drew the line at murdering his own mother. Though I had yet to see what he had done to her, instead.

The path to Baghra’s hut was overgrown with brambles, the summer wood tangled and pungent with the smell of leaves and damp earth. I walked slowly, searing off any parts that crowded the path and waiting to make sure I didn't accidentally set anything on fire. I knew I was probably just using it as an excuse to put this off for even a few moments longer, but still, it seemed disrespectful, somehow, for the path to her hut to be so poorly cared for. Had no one thought to look after her once the Darkling had left? She’d been a hard teacher and an unpleasant woman on her best days, but she’d never coddled me. She had a quick, sharp wit, had believed in me when no one else had, and had refused to give up on me even when I wanted give up on myself. Though I knew at least some of her motivations were selfish now, I couldn't help but be grateful. I was eager to know if she was alright, more afraid than I wanted to admit to find out what had become of her, and. . . I knew she was my best chance of solving the riddle of Morozova’s third amplifier. Maybe my only chance.

I climbed the three steps at the front of the hut and hesitated, my knuckles hovering in front of the door. I took a deep breath and made myself knock, though it was quiet. No one answered. I knocked again, waited, and then pushed the door open, cringing at the familiar blast of heat. Baghra always seemed to be cold, no matter the season.

The dark little room was just as I remembered it: sparsely furnished with only the barest necessities, a fire roaring in the tile oven, and Baghra huddled by it in her faded kefta. I was pleasantly surprised to see that she wasn’t alone. A servant sat beside her, a young boy dressed in the new servants' color. He got to his feet as I entered, peering at me through the gloom.

“No visitors,” he said.

“By whose command?” I asked wryly.

At the sound of my voice, Baghra looked up sharply.

She smacked her stick on the ground. “Leave, boy,” she commanded.

“But—”

“Go!” she snapped.

 _Just as pleasant as ever,_ I thought warily.

The boy hurried across the room and out of the hut without another word.

The door had barely shut when Baghra said, “I wondered when you’d make your way back here, little Saint.”

Trust Baghra to call me the one name I didn’t want to hear.

I was already sweating and had no desire to step closer to the fire, but I did it anyway, and crossed the room to sit in the chair the young servant had vacated.

She turned toward the flames as I approached, showing me her back. I ignored the insult, but it stirred a pang of guilt in my gut. I hadn't come expecting a warm reception, though I would be lying if I'd said part of me hadn't foolishly hoped for one.

I sat silent for a moment, unsure of where to begin, all the words I'd planned to say dying on my tongue. “Not a name I chose for myself, or like, as I'm sure you know," I said quietly. "I returned yesterday."

". . .I'm glad you're alive.” My voice was almost a whisper.

“Hmph.”

I dreaded to know, felt sick with worry over it, but as gently as I could, I asked, “What did he do to you?”

She gave a dry laugh. “Less than he might have. More than he should.”

“Baghra—”

“You were meant to go to Novyi Zem. You were meant to disappear.”

“I tried.”

“No, you went hunting,” she sneered with a smack of her stick on the ground. “And what did you find? A pretty necklace to wear for the rest of your life? Come closer,” she said. “I want to know what I bought for my trouble.”

I pursed my lips, but obligingly leaned in. When she turned to me, I sucked in a sharp breath.

Baghra had aged a lifetime since I’d seen her last. Her black hair was thinned and graying. Her sharp features had blurred, and wrinkles marred her once smooth face. The taut slash of her mouth looked sunken and soft.

But that was not why I had to stop myself from recoiling. Baghra’s eyes were gone. Where they should have been were two black orbs, shadows writhing in their fathomless depths.

“Baghra,” I choked out. I reached for her hand, but she yanked it away when she felt the brush of my fingertips.

“Spare me your pity, girl.”

“It isn't pity,” I said more sharply than I meant to. “I don't pity people, you know that, just like you know it doesn't mean I don't have compassion. Just. . .what did he _do_ to you?”

She gave another harsh laugh. “He left me in the dark. Seemed to think it poetic.”

Her voice was strong, but sitting by the fire, I realized it was the only part of her that had remained unchanged. She’d been lean and hard, with the knife-sharp posture and the perfectly honed muscles of an acrobat. Now, there was a slight tremor in her ancient hands, and her formerly wiry body just looked gaunt and frail. Baghra had always seemed ancient, despite her appearance. Now, she _looked_ old.

“Show me,” she said, reaching out again. I held still, letting her hands find my face and run over it as she traced her way down to my neck. The gnarled fingers moved like two white spiders, crawling down my jaw to the base of my throat, where they came to rest on the collar.

“Ah,” she breathed, her fingertips tracing the rough pieces of antler at my neck, her voice soft, almost wistful. “I would have liked to see his stag.”

“It was beautiful,” I said, reverence in my voice. “He let me touch him.”

“Before you slaughtered him,” she sneered.

I shook my head. “No. No I didn't kill him. Your son did.”

“And yet here you are. Collared but unleashed.”

I sighed quietly. “It's a long story. I'd be happy to tell you, but I really doubt you want to hear it.”

I wanted to pull back, to retreat, to look away from the teeming black pools of her eyes. _My fault,_ a voice in my mind said, even as I told myself I had not been the one to hurt her. I pushed up my sleeve and gently grasped one of her hands. She tried to pull away, but I tightened my grip and pulled hard - not nearly so hard as I would have had to a handful of weeks ago - until I got her near enough to lay her fingers over the fetter at my wrist. She went still.

“No,” she said. “It cannot be.”

She felt along the ridges of the sea whip’s scales.

“Rusalye,” she whispered. “What have you done, girl?”

“Another gift from your son,” I said, an angry edge in my voice even as I felt the hunger stir in me, hunger for more power, for the missing fetter. I couldn't tell if I ached for it or was disgusted by it. Probably both. “You know about the third amplifier too, then?” I tried not to sound hopeful or hungry, not too eager.

Her fingers dug into my wrist and I winced. “Is it true?” she asked abruptly. “What they say he can do, that he can give life to shadow?”

“. . . Yes,” I whispered.

Her hunched shoulders sagged even further. Then she cast my arm away as if it were something filthy. “Get out,” she hissed.

“I need your help.”

“I said get out.”

“Yes, I know what you said. Despite your regular accusations to the contrary, I'm not deaf. I have to stop him, Baghra. But I can't do it as I am, and I still can't take down the Fold. I tried. I need to know where to find the firebird.”

Her sunken mouth trembled slightly. “I betrayed my son once, little Saint. What makes you think I would do it again?”

My voice was gentle. “The same reason you did it the first time. To stop him from crossing a line.”

Baghra pounded the floor with her stick. “It's too late for that, isn't it? Thanks to you, he is farther from human than he's ever been. He's long past any redemption.”

 _Thanks to me?,_ I wanted to cry in outrage. But I knew she was right. I may not have forced him, but just as Novokribursk was gone, just as the Second Army was torn in two, just as Baghra's eyes had been taken, I had played a part in the creation of the Darkling's monsters.

“Maybe,” I said quietly, an edge entering my voice. “But maybe not. I tried. I ran. And then someone told me. . . . Even if I could keep ahead of the Darkling for the rest of my life, eventually another Sun Summoner would come along. By then he could have the antlers in hand, ready and waiting. The next person might not even want to fight him. In the end, I couldn't argue the fact that I was the only person who stood a chance against your boy," I hoped, perhaps cruelly, that the wording would stir something in her. "And only if I had Morozova's stag.

"I can't help the fact that I was born, Baghra, that I exist. Maybe that's my sin. But when the Darkling came for me, when I knew it was too late, that I would fall into his hands. . . I tried to kill myself. I cut my own throat so he couldn't use me. So I couldn't hurt people.” I looked down at my hands. “. . .Obviously I did a poor job of it,” I finished in a near whisper.

“But I tried to spare the stag," I went on. "It showed me trust, and it was so. . .” I took a quavering breath at the memory, feeling tears well in my eyes despite myself, “so beautiful. It should never have died for power. So I turned to my friend and I told him I wouldn't kill the stag, that we'd find another way. The moment the words left my mouth, the Darkling fired from the shadows.”

She laughed humorlessly. “You were a poor student. I wasted my time on you.”

“No,” I protested. “My net was out. Always up, like you taught me. I've done a poor job of it since we ran from him on the Fold, but back then, it was like you said: if I was awake, it was up. And I felt nothing other than trees and scrub and the herd that day.”

“That's a pretty story. And I don't care. You failed at the only real task I gave you. You failed me, you failed my son, you failed your country. I have no more use for you. Get out.”

My temper flared up in me like a rising dragon and an angry flash of light surged to my skin. “Use for me?” I hissed, half in disbelief. “At least I know where he gets that from! How can you be so obtuse? You, Mal, the King, your son, Nikolia, everyone has an opinion! Everyone tells me that every decision I make is the wrong one! I was a fool to run, I was a fool _not_ to run. I was a fool to turn from power, I was a fool to take it. You weren't there with me! I was the one who had to make the decision and don't you dare try to tell me that I made the wrong one! If I wasn't prepared for what I had to face, I am the last person who is to blame for that. You kept just as many secrets from me as he did. More.

“Running would have done nothing but give him more time to gather power before coming after me, antlers in hand, and I cannot believe for a moment that you really think otherwise, because I know you're not that stupid," I spat. "I am only free to stand here and have this utterly asinine knockdown with you because I _didn't_ do as you told me. Had I followed your instructions, his hold over me would have been complete and unbreakable!" I was glowing so bright and hot that even Baghra would have picked up on it had her hut not already been sweltering.

"Your plan was rushed and sloppy and poorly thought out, Baghra." My voice had honed itself into a hard, cold thing. "You panicked, and now you blame me for the failure and refuse to help me clean up the mess. Your son would have crushed the world if I hadn't disobeyed you. At least I tried,” I said, angry disgust in my voice, “which is more than I can say for you. You didn't stop him when it mattered. Don't get bitter and petulant with me because I had the courage to do what you wouldn't.”

Her lips were quivering with anger, and some horrible part of me felt gratified at the sight.

I had just enough presence of mind left to know that I was close to snapping. Carefully, I forced my voice to gentle over the livid ire simmering under my skin, and I went on. “Things are happening to me that I don't understand. Feelings and urges I've never had before come up out of nowhere. My power comes without being called. I. . . I've been-" _seeing things._ The words got caught around a lump in my throat and I couldn't force them out.

"I listened to you," I said softly instead. "I can't imagine that you care, but as difficult as you are, I respected you and I came to care about you, more than I even knew. That hasn't changed. You told me that you made him what he was. That you gave him his ambition. If you don't help me stop him, Ravka will be destroyed, everyone will suffer, and he _will_ lose whatever is left in him of the son you once knew. You want to view what I did as a failure? Fine. You want to blame me for everything that went wrong? Fine. But one failure doesn't spell the end. It just means you get up and you try not to fall into the same hole again. The _world_ is on the line.”

“You are an ignorant child, girl," she said, her voice tight with barely controlled anger. I nearly sneered at her words. "What do I care what happens to this useless country?" She went on. "Is the world so very fine that you think it worth saving?” She scoffed.

“I think the people in it deserve saving, yes,” I said. “And I believe that you do, too.”

“You couldn’t make a meat pie from what you know.”

“Fine,” I said, my hold on my temper straining to its limit. “I’m an idiot. I’m a fool. I’m useless. All the more reason to personally make sure I don't screw this up again, because whether either of us like it or not, I'm the only one with the power to stop him, and you know it.” Light had begun gathering around me again and I took a moment to force myself to calm, though I couldn't get it to dissipate entirely. “He will spend an eternity running roughshod over the world with nothing and no one to stop him if I don't.”

“You cannot be helped. Your only hope was to run.”

“I'm not asking for hope, Baghra!" I shouted, light surging around me again. This time, I couldn't be bothered to care. "I'm not asking to be saved! I'm asking for something much more useful," I said, my voice going hard. "Information. Tell me what you know about Morozova. Help me figure out what's going on with me, help me find the third amplifier so I can put an end to this. Finally.”

“I couldn’t begin to guess where to find the firebird, and I wouldn’t tell you if I could. All I want now is a warm room and to be left alone to die. Now get. Out.”

A beat passed, like the tide rushing out before a massive wave, and I felt my hold on myself shatter. Rage, the same rage I had felt before nearly killing Sergei, surged up in me. The light around me grew so bright that I had to squint, and the only feeling I had about it was one of rightness. “Do you think," I began, my voice deadly in its calm, "that just because you've been alive for almost a millennia that nothing can hurt you any longer? I'd be happy to prove you wrong. My patience will not last forever, and this is too important to let a _childish_ old woman pout and stomp her feet over. Shall I take away your disgusting little hut?" I sneered. "Shall I take your servant, your ridiculous fire, every one of the smallest comforts you have left? I could start with that and carry on much, much further if you don't think it's enough. After all, your opinion is the only one in this entire 'useless' country that matters, isn't it? Perhaps I should behave more like your son so I'll seem more familiar to you."

For a long moment, the only sound in the hut was the crackling of the fire. Then abruptly, I realized what had just come out of my mouth, and horror and disgust, at both my words and the fact that I had _meant_ them, roiled through me like a wave of nausea. I put a hand to my mouth.

Baghra laughed that rattling, vicious chuckle. “You’re taking to power well, I see. As it grows, it will hunger for more. Like calls to like, girl.”

“No,” I said weakly. Her words sent a spike of fear through me. “I didn’t mean that, truly. I would _never_ hurt anyone like that. I'm not. . . .” I shook my head. _I'm not like him._ I felt a wash of nausea. “Since I put on the fetter, Baghra, I. . .I-”

“You cannot violate the rules of this world without a price,” she interrupted. “Those amplifiers were never meant to be; no Grisha should have such power. Already you are changing. You think you are out of control now?" She scoffed, let out a dry, harsh laugh. "Seek the third, use it, and you will lose yourself completely, piece by piece. You want my help? You want to know what to do? Forget the firebird. Forget Morozova and his madness.”

“How else am I supposed to stop him?” I cried, desperation bleeding from my voice. “It's on me, and me alone! Everyone tells me, eagerly, what _not_ to do, but none of you can give me any alternatives! There's no other way! I can't abandon this." I shook my head in refusal. "I _won't._ There is no more running from what I am,” I said, and I wondered if the ferocity in my voice was directed at her, or at myself.

I heard an echo of the Darkling's voice and nearly shuddered. _Believe me, I wish there were another way._

She turned back to the fire. “Then do what you like, girl," she said impassively. "I’m done with this life, and I’m done with you.”

“So you're done with your son, too, then?" I asked.

She ignored me completely.

"Baghra. . . please," I begged. "The Darkling, he. . . .”

I floundered, unable to find anything more that might get through to her. What had I expected? That she would quickly get over the fact that I'd defied her, caused her to be mutilated, and then greet me as a friend? Welcome me proudly as a favored student? She’d lost her son’s love, the only person who had walked eternity with her, who had any memory of the world that had come before, of the her that had come before. And in the end, when she'd had no choice but to turn to me, I’d failed her. I wanted to dig my heels in and demand her help. I wanted to disappear into the floor. I wanted to plead with her, cajole her, find some other way make her see reason. I wanted to fall to my knees and cry forgiveness for every mistake I’d made, as though she was the only person in the world who could absolve me, who could tell me I had done something other than make mistake after disastrous mistake. But I knew this conversation was over. So I did what she’d wanted me to do all along: I left.

I closed the door behind me, weary and boneless, and found myself face to face with the servant boy, perched at the bottom of her steps.

We considered one another for a moment. "Is she good to you?" I asked. "Well," I added with a huffed laugh, "for who she is, I mean. She either doesn't have a happy face, or it looks exactly the same as her angry face."

He shrugged one miniature shoulder. "She's always angry, but she doesn't yell at me or hit me. And I think sometimes she just likes to be angry, it makes her feel better." He eyed me curiously. "Is it true?” he asked. “Are you really the Sun Summoner?”

I let a weak smile onto my lips. "The very same. Would you like a show?"

He nodded so hard I thought his head might fall off his shoulders.

"What's your name, young man?"

"Misha, Miss.

"And do you have a favorite animal, Misha?"

He looked down.

"It's alright," I encouraged. "I'll keep it a secret, if you like. Just between us."

He looked up at me dubiously, but finally muttered "rabbits," so quietly I almost couldn't hear.

My smile that time was almost genuine. "I like rabbits too," I said. Then, with a wave of my hand, I surrounded the lad in the specters of two dozen rabbits, all made of glowing light, hopping about, wiggling whiskers and noses, scratching ears with their strong back feet.

Misha gasped and looked around him in wonder. He spun to take them all in, then spun again, and again. "Can I touch them?" He asked. I was reminded of the mornings of winter gift-giving at Keramzin, choruses of "can we open them yet? Now?" frustrating Ana Kuya into donating them all to the church if we wouldn't be quiet about them until after breakfast and tea.

I nodded. "They're not solid, though."

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached a hand down as if to pet one, and his mouth popped open when his hand passed right through it. "It's warm!" he said with a goofy grin as he looked back up to me.

"That's why they call me the Sun Summoner," I said. "Not the Star Summoner or the Lukewarm Twilight summoner."

With another wave of my hand, the rabbits disappeared into trailing sparks.

Misha looked up at me, his little face turning serious. “My mother says you’re a Saint.”

I let out a harsh laugh. _Of course,_ I thought wearily. _Of course she does._ “I'm not a Saint as far as I know, just a person trying to do what she can to help our people. But you should be careful who you say that to, little one, and tell your mother to do the same. Around here, it's likely to get you into a dangerous amount of trouble. Will you do that for me? Be careful?"

He nodded solemnly, and I gave him one last wan smile. With a pat on his shoulder, I made my way down the path that ran from Baghra's hut to grounds of the Little Palace proper.

When I reached the lakeshore, I made my way to one of the white stone Summoners’ pavilions and sat down in the shade of its steps, leaning my head against one of the carved white pillars. I didn't want to spare the concentration to keep myself invisible, so I cast my net wide instead, and then closed my eyes, letting the afternoon sun warm the skin of my face. I’d been a complete idiot. I'd been so sure that Baghra would see reason, understand how important this was, that she would know something about the firebird and be willing to pass it on. But ambition wasn't the only thing the Darkling had inherited from her - his stubborn blindness might even be eclipsed by hers. I wondered what it must have been like to be raised by such a woman, rigid and unyielding, demanding nothing less than absolute perfection, and then to have her as your only companionship as everyone around you died, again, and again, and- I stopped that thought. I knew what waited for me after all this was over, if I survived. I didn't want to think about how meaningless the passing of years would become.

Baghra had been my only lead, and I hadn’t let myself realized just how much hope I’d invested in her until it was all gone.

I smoothed the glittering folds of my kefta over my lap and put my face in one of my hands. She would not help me. Not now, not ever. I understood that, and it was bitter as bile in my throat. I had actually been stupid enough to believe that the Darkling might have shown her mercy - his mother, for Saints' sake. The Darkling showed mercy to no one who betrayed him, and there was literally no exception to that, it seemed.

And apparently, I had been doing a great deal of lying to myself lately. It needed to stop, but I wasn't sure if I was strong enough to force it. Perhaps it was time for a chat with Nikolai. All of this was new to me, and he played the entire thing like it was. . . well, a game. And he seemed to have mastered it. Mal wouldn't like me spending extra time with him, but I knew he would understand why I needed it. And I would be more than happy to have him sit in on the coaching session - he knew me better than I knew myself in most ways, and I almost always found his perspective helpful.

The ugliness of the very thought of my threats to Baghra made me feel ill. I could blame my desperation, a frayed temper, but as hot-headed as I had always been, I had never been cruel. Not ever. Worse, some part of me still wanted to march back to her hut and make good on those threats, drag her out by her hair if I had to, and wrest answers from her sour, bitter mouth, no matter what it took.

The throne room. Sergei. And now this. What was wrong with me? Was it the bite? The fetter? I hadn't noticed any changes in myself after taking the collar. But then, I hadn't really used my power much after it had been put on me, either, and since I'd put the fetter on, I'd pushed myself to my limit.

I closed my eyes, pushed the thoughts from my mind, and sought the comfort of my power. Out in the open, in the daylight, I called it, and before I'd finished the thought, I felt it rushing to me from every direction. It was vast and limitless and unstoppable, and I pulled at it, gloried in it. I let the light have me, wash through me as if I had no body at all, but kept it as heatless as I could. I called forth cascades of it, a vast expanse, on and on, and still I didn't tire. It was endless.

As it flowed through me and around me, woke the very core of me, it swept away the hard edges of fear, of anger and frustration and impatience, of resentment and worry. When at last I felt the return of calm, of my sense of self, I let the glow melt into the natural light of the afternoon. Slowly, I opened my eyes, finding a warm smile on my face despite myself, despite the morning I'd had, and I sat, feeling the remains of it tingling on my skin.

I saw children and teachers across the lake standing outside of the school, staring open-mouthed at me. My smile turned sheepish as one of them jumped into the air and shouted, waiving her (his? It was hard to tell from so far away) arms at me. A teacher scolded the child immediately, but the excitement had already caught on among the younger students.

And then I saw, near them, at the edge of the lake, the Darkling, standing and watching me.

I froze with my hand in the air, lifted to give a small wave. My eyes darted between him - _it_ \- and the gaggle of robed children and adults. Again, no one seemed to see it but me. And as it had in the field outside of Kribursk, it did nothing but stand, unmoving and watching me. Slowly, tensed, I rose, as teachers ushered their wards back inside.

The apparition stared at me, and I stared back, both of us motionless, until the school door closed behind the last student. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again, it was gone.

I don't know how long I stood there, tensed, hands balled into fists, waiting for it to reappear anywhere at any moment. I had my net out in full force, though I felt certain that whatever the thing was, it would not disturb the tiny, invisible strands of light. _Because it isn't real,_ I insisted, reminded myself. Eventually, once my breathing had calmed, I forced myself to sit back down on the pavilion step. I may not know what in the name of all Saints this thing was, but I refused to let it chase me off of my own grounds.

I sat for a long while, taking in the green of the grass and trees, the deep blue of the lake, the colors of the flowers blooming on the trees and bushes, waiting for it to reappear. Eventually, half of my attention still keyed up and expecting an ambush, I took my copy of the Istorii Sankt’ya out of my pocket and ran my hands over the worn red leather cover, too stubborn to let the phantom keep me from doing what I wanted. I’d looked at the little book so many times that it fell open right to the illustration of Sankt Ilya, though now the pages were wrinkled and stiff from having been soaked during the crash of the Hummingbird. I sat staring at it, my eyes darting up to scan the area around me less and less as the sun moved in the sky, until it was no longer overhead and I had all but forgotten about the phantom's appearance.

Sankt Ilya: a Grisha Saint? Or another greedy fool who couldn’t resist the temptation of power, of tinkering with the laws of the world? It seemed that the only difference between great men and great fools was the outcome of their experiments. I needed the third amplifier, that was indisputable – but did that make me a fool? Was I already falling prey to the same ambition that had destroyed the Darkling? Monsters were not born, I knew. They were made, one small decision at a time, just as a landslide can start with a single grain of earth.

_Forget Morozova and his madness._

I ran my finger along the curve of the arch. It might be meaningless. It might be some reference to Ilya’s past that had nothing to do with amplifiers, or just an artist’s flourish. Even if we were right and it was some kind of signpost, it could be anywhere. Nikolai had traveled most of Ravka, and he’d never seen it. For all we knew, it had fallen into rubble hundreds of years ago.

A bell rang at the school across the lake, and a gaggle of Grisha children rushed from its doors, shouting, laughing, eager to be out in the summer sunshine. I realized how long I must have been sitting here, and my stomach rumbled in agreement. The school had continued to run despite the disasters of the last months, the children still cared for. But if the Darkling might be coming, I’d need to evacuate it. No child should be within miles of anything like the nichevo’ya. No person should, truth be told.

_The ox feels the yoke, but does the bird feel the weight of its wings?_

Had Baghra ever really spoken those words to me? Or had I only heard them in a dream?

I stood up and brushed the dust from the back of my kefta. I wasn’t sure what had disturbed me more, Baghra’s refusal to help, my own burning flare of rage, or how very broken she had seemed. It had been like returning to a towering mountain only to find that it had turned brittle and crumbling. Baghra wasn’t just an old woman, she never had been. She was a woman of not just steel, but Grisha steel, who had lost all hope, and whatever I had meant, whatever I'd argued in her hut, I was the one who had taken it from her. I was that keystone, just as I was for all the other disasters that had befallen the people of this nation since I had refused to let Mal die on that first crossing of the Fold that day so many months ago. My first act of bravery; my first act of selfish and disastrous heroism. Baghra was yet another casualty of my good intentions and well-meaning mistakes. I walked back to the Little Palace feeling disturbed and disquieted, bitter, angry, disgusted, and hollowed out.

 

 

When I returned to my room that night, it was to find a bright, young flower on my desk and a fresh bough of cedar burning in the fireplace. It filled the room with scent, grounding and uplifting, and covered over the smell of the Darkling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major spoilers in the comments on this chapter
> 
> 2/9/17: Adjusted Baghra scene to include Alina's angry glow and references in the conversation to the problems she's been having (temper, power coming without being called).  
> 2/12/17: I was holding Alina back from being _this_ story's Alina during and just after the Baghra scene. I fixed that, stem to stern.
> 
> ~~I'm bringing Ivan back to life. Or. . . time traveling and un-killing him, though he'll get super close to death.~~
> 
> ~~Alina will shout an order for Tolya to stop, and Tolya will stop, which will make Alina go "wait wut? Why did you listen to me?" and Ivan go "wait wut? Why did you save me?" I feel like it's cheating, bringing him back, because you know that whole "no, you can't just kill the redshirts, that's lame!" thing. But there were just too many scenes coming up in the last "book" that would be rife with opportunity for him and/or him with Alina.~~
> 
> I'm also adding what will amount to a training montage for Alina somewhere during the trip to Os Alta, so if she randomly uses some new power or what have you, that's why.


	16. My Army

Despite its name, I loved the war room. The cartographer in me couldn’t resist the old maps wrought in animal hide and embellished in whimsical detail: the gilded lighthouse at Os Kervo, the mountain temples of the Shu, the mermaids that swam at the edges of the seas.

I looked around the table at the faces of the Grisha, some familiar, some new. Any one of them could be a spy for the Darkling, the King, the Apparat. Any one of them could be looking for the chance to get me out of the way and assume power.

Tolya and Tamar stood outside, just a shout away in case of trouble, but it was Mal’s presence that gave me comfort. He sat at my right in his roughspun clothes, the sunburst pinned over his heart. I hated to think of him leaving so soon for the hunt, but I had to admit a distraction might be a good thing. Mal had taken pride in being a soldier and, though he tried to hide it, I knew the King’s ruling and his listlessness over these last weeks weighed heavily on him. That he knew I was keeping something from him only made it all worse.

Sergei sat to Mal’s right, his arms crossed sullenly over his chest. He wasn’t happy to be sitting next to an otkazat’sya guard — more than once, I had to keep myself from either snapping at him or grinning at how much he reminded me of a pouting child — and he was even less pleased that I’d insisted on seating a Fabrikator directly to my left, in what was considered a position of honor. It was Ruslan, to my delight. The red embroidery at the cuffs of his deep purple kefta marked him as one of the Alkemi, Fabrikators who specialized in chemicals and concoctions of every sort imaginable. He was as young as any other Grisha who had still been in training when I’d first lived here, but he had always seemed like more of an old soul. He was thoughtful, cool-headed, fair-minded, and more often than not seemed to be a calming influence on others. We would likely need it.

David sat further down the table, his cuffs emblazoned in gray. He worked in glass, steel, wood, stone—anything solid. He was a Durast, and I knew he was the best of them because the Darkling had chosen him to forge my collar. Then there was Fedyor, and Zoya beside him, gorgeous as always in dark Etherealki blue.

Across from Zoya sat Pavel, the dark-skinned Inferni who’d spoken so angrily against me the previous day. He had narrow features and a chipped tooth that whistled slightly when he talked. Under other circumstances, I would have been glad to have someone on the council who wasn’t afraid to disagree with me, but even without him I knew I would have no shortage of them in this group.

The first part of the meeting was spent taking stock of the numbers of Grisha at the various outposts around Ravka and those who might be in hiding. Zoya suggested sending messengers to spread the news of my return and offer full and free pardon to those who swore their allegiance to the Sun Summoner. We spent nearly an hour debating the terms and wording of the pardon, and only stopped then because I put my foot down and said that I had heard what everyone had to say and would settle the specifics later. I knew I would have to take it to Nikolai for the King’s approval, and I wanted to step carefully; everyone agreed, at least, on “loyalty to the Ravkan throne and the Second Army.” No one seemed happy with it, so I was pretty sure we’d gotten it right.

It was Fedyor who raised the issue of the Apparat. “It’s troubling that he’s evaded capture this long.”

“I agree,” I said.

“Has he tried to contact you?” Pavel asked me.

I shook my head, then arched a brow at the skepticism in his face.

“He’s been spotted in Kerskii and Ryevost,” said Fedyor. “He shows up out of nowhere to preach, then disappears before the King’s soldiers can close in.”

“We should think about an assassination,” said Sergei. “He’s growing too powerful, and he could still be colluding with the Darkling.”

I thought the idea ridiculous; I couldn't fathom why the Darkling would want people to worship me, but I knew the unexpected turns his mind could take too well to dismiss the idea out of hand. I couldn't imagine why the Apparat would continue to be loyal to a man who had abandoned him to a traitor's death either, though, unless he was foolish enough to think he could use the Darkling to some end of his own.

“We’d have to find him first,” observed Paja.

Zoya gave a graceful wave of her hand. “What would be the point? He seems bent on spreading word of the Sun Summoner and claiming she’s a Saint. It’s about time the people had some appreciation for the Grisha.”

“Not the Grisha,” said Pavel, jutting his chin truculently in my direction. “Her.”

Zoya lifted one elegant shoulder. “It’s better than them reviling us all as witches and traitors.”

I almost laughed. “You really think that's how it would work?”

“Why not? You are Grisha.”

“Yes. I am Grisha. But people don't bend to the truth; they bend the truth to fit themselves. I would bet you anything that these people who are 'worshiping' me,” I said the word with distaste, “have already found a way around the fact that I'm a Grisha because they wouldn't consider it palatable. 'She's a Saint, not some lowly witch.'

“In fact, if you tried to remind them what I really am, they'd probably just use it as another reason to revile us. They'd say you were being greedy, trying to lay claim to me, arrogant in trying to call me one of your own, or any other flavor of idiocy they felt like. Prejudice is not that easy to wipe out.”

Ruslan nodded slightly, almost absently, to my left, though he said nothing.

“Let the King do the dirty work for us,” said Fedyor. “Let him find the Apparat and execute him and let him suffer the people’s wrath.”

I couldn’t believe we were calmly debating a man’s murder. And I wasn’t sure I would even want the Apparat dead yet, in any case. The priest had plenty to answer for, that was true, but no one knew if he was still working with the Darkling. And he'd given me the Istorii Sankt’ya, which meant he was a possible source of information. If he was captured, I could only hope the King would keep him alive long enough for questioning.

“Do you think he believes it?” asked Zoya, studying me. “That you’re a Saint risen and back from the dead?”

“I think it doesn't make a difference either way,” I said honestly.

“It would help to know just how crazy he is.”

“Extra,” I replied. “He's extra crazy. Let's just operate under that assumption. Extra, special kinds of crazy.”

“I’d rather fight a traitor than a zealot,” Mal said quietly, and I had to agree. It was the first time he’d spoken, and I was glad to hear him contributing. “I may have some old contacts in the First Army who will still talk to me. There are rumors of soldiers defecting to join him, and if that’s the case, they must know where he is.”

I stole a surreptitious glance at Zoya. She was gazing at Mal with those impossibly blue eyes. It seemed like she’d spent half the meeting batting her lashes at him, in fact. I'd had to stop once to calm angry light from gathering around me. She was a powerful Squaller and, potentially, a powerful ally. But she’d also been one of the Darkling’s favorites; maybe she wanted Mal, or maybe she just wanted to get under my skin.

I almost snorted. Who was I kidding? I hated even sitting in the same room with her. I wanted nothing more than to throw her out into the cold. Mal had paid her no attention, but a slow, twisting feeling in my stomach had me wondering if he wasn't ignoring her a little too deliberately. She was the only person in the room he hadn't even glanced at, not even when she spoke. I knew I was the one he cared about. I knew I was the one he wanted. But it made me squirm to think about the reasons he'd feel like utterly ignoring her was his best course of action. You didn't need to ignore someone who had never mattered at all, right?

I took a breath and tried to focus. I had an army to run. _And,_ I thought with a slow, dangerous curl of my lips, hidden by the angle of my head as I bent over a document, _just let her try to touch him._

The hardest part of the meeting was still to come. As much as I already wanted nothing more than to curl up in a soft chair with a cup of tea, there were things that needed to be addressed, and the sooner we got through them, the sooner I could be done.

I took a deep breath, looked around the table and said, “One of the reasons I wanted to see you all so soon is that you need to know what we’re up against. But not one word of it leaves this room.”

They all fell silent. It was as if a bell had rung, as if everything that had come before was mere play acting, and now the real meeting had begun. I looked each of them in the eyes until I got their acknowledgment.

Piece by piece, I laid out what I knew about the nichevo’ya, what they were and how they moved, their strengths and one true weakness, and most importantly, the fact that they did not fear sunlight.

“But you escaped,” Paja said tentatively, “so they must be mortal.”

I nodded. “Yes, they are mortal. My power can destroy them. But it requires nothing less than the Cut, and there will be a limit to how many of them I could handle at once. At the moment, I'm one weapon against what we need to assume will be an army.” I didn’t mention that I no longer seemed to tire when using my power – that would require telling them about the second amplifier, and I had no intention of doing that while surrounded by dubious loyalty. “We only escaped on the True Sea because the Darkling was taken completely by surprise, and because Prince Nikolai got us outside his range fast enough,” I continued. “Once we got far enough away, either the Darkling decided to stop chasing us – highly unlikely – or we passed the limit of his reach.”

“How close?” asked Pavel.

I looked to Mal.

He hummed over it for a moment. “A mile, maybe two.”

“So there’s _some_ limit to his power,” Fedyor said, with no small amount of relief.

“Yes. He's powerful, he's clever, and he's old,” _ancient,_ I wanted to say, “but at the end of it all he is still just a man.” I was glad to be able to interject some sort of encouraging news into this. “He’ll have to enter Ravka right alongside his army to get to us. The First Army is accounting for this. When he comes, we will have warning, and he will have a vulnerability. The nichevo'ya aren't like other Grisha power – it costs him to make them.”

“Because it’s not Grisha power,” David said softly. “It’s merzost.”

In Ravkan, the word for “magic” and “abomination” was the same. Basic Grisha theory stated that matter couldn’t just be created from nothing. But that was a tenet of the Small Science. Merzost was different – it existed outside of the small science, the natural order. It was a corruption of the making that was at the very heart of the world.

David fiddled with a loose thread at his sleeve. “That energy, that substance has to come from somewhere. It must be coming from him.”

Which explained why he had looked so drawn in Novyi Zem.

“But how is he doing it?” asked Zoya. “Has there ever been a Grisha with this kind of power?”

“The real question is how to fight them,” said Fedyor.

I nodded. “I agree. However he's doing it, I don't think it could be stopped any more than we can be kept from using our abilities. And if any of our resources had information on merzost like that, it likely would have long ago been burned, either as heresy, or because he didn't want anyone else to have the knowledge.”

“All you have to do to stop us is bind our hands,” Pavel said.

I huffed a laugh. “If we could get close enough to him to bind his hands, he'd already be dead. Besides, I could summon with fingers, even before the collar,” I said, tapping a fingertip against the bone that encircled my throat.

“How?” Ruslan asked.

I shrugged. “I was trained by a very different school than the rest of you.” It was supremely difficult to keep from grinning down at Mal like an idiot, memories of pranks and secrets and light shows and experiments gone wrong flooding my mind. I did notice with satisfaction, though, how hard he had to work to keep more than a twitch from his own lips.

Zoya noticed, too.

Talk turned to defense of the Little Palace and the possible advantages of confronting the Darkling in the field. But I had begun watching David. When Zoya had asked about other Grisha, he’d looked directly at my collar – the closest he had come to looking at me since I'd returned to the Little Palace. It was just a glance, and he'd gone right back to staring at the table, but if possible, he seemed even more uncomfortable than usual now. I wondered if he knew something more about merzost, or maybe something about Morozova. The thought that my search for the firebird might not be dead in the water was sending thrums of electricity through me, making it hard to maintain the appearance of calm.

And despite what I'd said, I wanted an answer to Zoya’s question, too. I didn’t know if I had the training or the nerve to attempt such a thing, but was there a way to summon soldiers of light to fight the Darkling’s shadow army? Was that the power the three amplifiers might give me? Was it still possible to, if not surpass him, at least meet him on even footing? And if I could, wouldn't it be irresponsible not to?

I intended to try and talk to David alone after the meeting, but before the words dismissing everyone had even finished leaving my mouth, he was practically sprinting out the door. I wondered in part of my mind if he was afraid or guilty, and why he was even on the council at all – he certainly didn't seem to want to be. Any thoughts I had of cornering him in the Materialki workshops or having him summoned to me that afternoon were squelched by the piles of paper waiting for me in my chambers. I spent hours preparing the Grisha pardon and signing countless documents guaranteeing funds and provisions for the outposts the Second Army hoped to reestablish on Ravka’s borders. Sergei had tried to manage some of the Darkling’s duties, and it looked like he hadn't done a half bad job, but he seemed to have addressed only the most essential, rudimentary things, and so much of the work had simply gone unattended.

Everything on every paper seemed to be written in the most confusing way possible. I had to read and reread what should have been simple requests, and I thought more than once about asking Nikolai for someone to work as a translator for me. By the time I’d made a small dent in the pile, I was late for dinner—my first meal in the domed hall. It was part of the new Second Army. Yes, I was the leader, but I did not exist cloistered in another world like the Darkling had. I would force myself to eat with them at least once a week, and was already working to make sure I knew everyone's names, even the servants’. I would have preferred to take a tray in my room tonight, but this early on, it was more practicality than altruism: I needed to assert my presence at the Little Palace.

I sat at the Darkling’s table, in a disgustingly ostentatious guilt chair Nikolai had graciously sent over (unasked). It had taken force of will not to have it broken into kindling and put into the tile fireplaces. I'd also had my table replaced with one a fraction of the size of the others, so rather than me sitting at a large, empty table, far removed from everyone else, we now formed what looked like a triangle with the top sliced off.

It was all a very nice idea, but I had none of Mal’s easy way or Nikolai’s charm.

I was reminded of my first weeks here. I was fine if someone spoke directly to me. I could answer and respond just fine, but drawing people out and putting them at ease were far, far down the list of things I was not good at. That, added to the fact that they were still wildly uncomfortable with the new seating arrangements had the conversation stilted and pockmarked with awkward moments of silence. The only way I was able to deal with it was by pretending (poorly) that I didn't notice. The Grisha were used to a cold and distant leader – at least I wasn't terrifying when spoken to, seemed moderately human, and made an effort to be visible. I desperately wished Mal could be seated next to me. At one point I had decided to invite Nikolai the next time I planned on being out here, but discarded the idea almost immediately. We weren't so bad off that I had to put Mal through the experience of watching it – and Nikolai would undoubtedly put on a show knowing he was watching.

The other tables weren't faring much better. The Grisha sat side by side in a jumble of red, purple, and blue, and for most of the meal the only words exchanged were “pass the butter” or “would you hand me the pitcher.” The clink of silverware echoed off the cracked dome — true to Tamar and Tolya's request, the Fabrikators had not yet begun their repairs. Every time I looked up at it, I either had to suppress a grin, or push bile down at the thought of what I’d almost done.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, or scream, or both. Or to put on some sort of light show, at the very least. If I hadn't been in charge and wasn't supposed to be adhering to some sort of decorum, that was exactly what I would have done. It was as if I’d asked them to take supper next to a Fjerdan witch hunter or a Shu surgeon. At least Sergei and Marie seemed content, even if Nadia looked like she wanted to disappear into the butter dish as they cuddled and cooed beside her. I was happy enough for them, I supposed. Though if I was being honest with myself, half the time I caught them loving up to each other, the dinner I'd already eaten threatened to reappear. They had been two people here who I hadn't particularly liked, but who — especially in Sergei's case — had managed to stick just far enough to the right side of caustic that I hadn't actively disliked them. I might have been a little jealous, too, and that thought rankled.

I made a silent count: forty-nine Grisha, most of them barely out of school. Children. With uncomfortably few exceptions, our hope rested on the backs of teenagers who had grown up coddled in a palace and who had never seen a day of combat or field duty. I sighed internally and fought to keep from rubbing my temples right there at the table. _My army,_ I thought wearily. My reign was off to limping start, at best.

 

 * * * * *

 

After the interminable dinner was finally, blessedly over (I swear it lasted four hours, though the clock said forty minutes), I immediately called my guard into my chambers. As soon as the doors were firmly shut, I grabbed Mal by the collar without a word to anyone and dragged him into my bedchamber. As an afterthought, I poked my head back out and said we weren't to be disturbed for anything but the Darkling himself.

When the doors were closed again, I grabbed fistfulls of the front of his tunic, pushed to the balls of my feet without a word, and pressed my lips to his, almost immediately hearing a long sigh come from me as I felt my tense energy start to drain away.

Mal put his hands first on my hips, then eventually all the way around me as we kissed, a slow, languid thing that seemed to go on forever and melted every piece of tension from my muscles, bones, skin. I'd swear even my hair felt relaxed. Eventually I ended the kiss and pressed myself to him, tucking my face against his chest, and we just stood there, holding each other.

He nuzzled his face close to my ear and said in a near whisper, voice husky, “It didn't look _that_ bad at dinner. Not that I'm complaining.”

“Good,” I said with a grin as I pulled away and began unbuttoning my kefta. I saw Mal tense out of the corner of my eyes and had to suppress another grin. I shucked the kefta off and let it drop to the floor in a heap, then went for the sash around my waist. Just as Mal opened his mouth to speak - object, it almost looked like - I added the sash to the pile on the floor and stepped back into his arms. “Just wanted to be closer,” I said quietly.

We stood like that, the only sounds the crackling of the fire, which was never lit without a cedar bough in it anymore, and Mal's heartbeat against my ear.

I pulled back and took him by the hand, leading him to one of the big, soft armchairs I'd had added to the room near the fireplace, and sat him down, immediately straddling his legs to join him. I bent down and kissed him again, though this time was different. This time, Saints bless him, he slipped his tongue between my lips. Mal was unfairly skilled with it – I felt my brain turning to pudding, the center of my chest catching fire and heat uncoiling in my belly, along my spine, in what felt like moments. I was losing myself in him, to him, just as I had wanted to when I had yanked him in here, and I couldn't have felt more satisfied, more full.

His hands ran over the thin material of my tunic, along my sides, over my waist and hips, up and down the outsides and tops of my thighs, until I found myself curling and arching against him like a cat begging attention. I pressed myself forward as close as I could get and, as our fast breaths fanned over one another's faces, slowly ground my hips over his lap in a long, languid motion. Without skipping a beat he growled and redoubled the heat in his kiss, even as he pulled himself farther back in the chair so his hips were too far away for mine to get to.

I moved my mouth to his jaw, kissing and nipping along its hard edge, paying close attention to the scar that ran along its length, and down the side of his neck. He groaned and shifted under me, but with the touch of his fingers guided my lips back to his and kissed me so hard it was practically a bruising thing.

I slid my hand down his chest to his lap until I felt him, hard as a rock in his trousers, and _Saints_ but that had to be uncomfortable. I heard some sort of hungry, half begging sound come from my throat. Immediately he crushed me against him and but found my hand with his, lacing our fingers together and pulling it away.

I sat back with a quiet growl. “Is there a particular reason you're trying to kill me? I thought you _liked_ me,” I said through heaving breaths.

It was immensely satisfying that he was breathing just as hard as I was – it would be even if I hadn't felt the physical evidence of how much he wanted me for myself. His lips were darkened and swollen, his pupils wide, and it made something in me turn to crackling lightning and liquid fire even as I thought I had never seen him more beautiful. He gave me that stupid, genuine, blue-eyed smile that had melted me every time since he'd grown up and said, his voice so rough that I felt smug, “We have all the time in the world, Alina.” The love and tenderness in his eyes as he spoke was frankly unfair, and I had to fight against the sudden tears I felt at the back of my throat. He put a hand on my cheek. “And it's you. I want you, _Saints,”_ he said, and it was a curse rather than an entreaty. “But I want to do this right, more. I finally have you, and now that I do, I won't do this wrong. You deserve better. You deserve everything.”

I opened my mouth to argue that ten or so years was more than enough time, and what could possibly be wrong when we both wanted it so much? But I stopped myself when I realized that to him, this was all new. Part of me found it a little funny that given all the women Mal had bedded over the years (a thought I quickly crushed to avoid the swell of possessive fury it incited), he hesitated to do more than kiss me. But I also thought I understood perfectly: Mal knew how to take a woman to bed - a woman who didn't mean anything. But whatever this was, whatever we were doing, was something he had never done before.

Maybe Mal had always loved me but had never realized it. Maybe he had just realized that he _should_ have always loved me. Either way, I would be the first woman he would ever be with because he truly cared about her. In our own ways, this would be the first time for the both of us. I had just wanted it much, much longer than he had.

As long as my blood wasn't pumping like liquid fire through my veins, I didn't think I actually mind the idea of taking it slow. At least in the part of me that didn't want to try to see how quickly I could sear most of his clothes off, it sounded nice. Like the difference between eating a good meal, savoring the taste and feel of every bite, and just inhaling. Eating to eat.

“I hate you,” I muttered ungraciously.

He chuckled with fond affection at my impatience. “You really don't.”

“No I really, really do. If I spontaneously combust — which, I remind you, is a literal possibility in my case — and this whole stupid country is plunged into chaos and unfathomable darkness, it will be no one's stupid fault but your own.”

He chuckled, a rich, warm sound, and ran his hands over my back. I couldn't help my body arching into the touch, my spine curving, the small, hungry moan, and the sharp intake of breath I heard from him in response was more than a little satisfying. Not all of it was even vindictively so.

I bent down and bit him hard on the shoulder in retaliation. It only made him laugh outright. The beautiful sound echoed through the cool, dark room and made it feel, if only for a moment, as if it were bright and warm.

I moved my mouth to his ear and growled “You are an ass,” before taking his earlobe between my teeth and biting as hard as I thought I could get away with without leaving a mark. Then, softening, I moved my lips to his ear again and whispered, “But I love you.” I kissed the side of his face, his temple, his cheek, his jaw, repeating “I love you,” until he pulled back and looked at me, an almost worshipful adoration, a wonder shining in his eyes that made my chest feel tight.

“And what a wonder that is,” he replied, voice soft and thick.

I looked at him, at the naked emotion on his face, until I felt tears prick at my eyes. Then I yanked myself back off of him and moved toward the bed, informing him that he was going to stay with me, at _least_ until I fell asleep.

When we settled in, both of us fully clothed, we lay front to front, and he pulled me to him, tucking my head under his chin. I put a leg between his, careful to maintain a respectful distance from his (probably severely bruised by this point) groin. As the fire under the mantle grew smaller, we held each other, twined our fingers together, touched faces and necks and locks of hair as we talked. We laughed, sharing observations of palace life, matching faces to the names of people I'd told him stories about, grousing over the asinine behavior of nobles and royal servants alike. We talked about changes that should be made, both possible and entirely unrealistic, and what we might do once this was all over, where we might go and what life we might make for ourselves somewhere out in the world.

I had no idea when I finally drifted off to sleep, only that when I did, I was still safely wrapped in the arms of my best friend and the man I loved. If we could still do this, then there was no world in which we wouldn't come out of all of this okay.

 

 * * * * *

 

I woke the next morning, flinging myself upright in bed with a gasp to the sound of that cool, clear voice. "Feeling frustrated, Alina?" it mocked.

I had heard the words clear as day, but when my eyes shot around the room, he was nowhere to be seen. With a growl and a clench of my teeth, I threw the covers aside and rose for the day. Mal had agreed to join the hunting party in the end, and I had wanted to rise early to see him off, anyway. I was up before dawn, as it turned out, so after getting ready, I ate an early breakfast and attended to some of the backlog of paperwork that seemed to be multiplying like a living thing every time I turned away from it.

When it was nearing time for Mal's party to leave, I set my pen down, stretched, and left to see him off. I was beginning to realize that we would have even less privacy at the Little Palace than we’d had on the road. Between Tolya and Tamar (who at least knew that we were together) and the constantly hovering servants and couriers, the act we had to put on felt overbearingly stifling after the closeness of the previous night.

By the time I reached the double eagle fountain, the path to the palace gates was swarming with people and horses: Vasily and his aristocrat friends in their elaborate riding regalia, First Army officers in their sharp uniforms, and behind them, a legion of servants in white and gold.

I found Mal checking his saddle near a group of royal trackers. He was easy to pick out in his peasant roughspun. He had a gleaming new bow on his back and a quiver of arrows fletched in the pale blue and gold of the Ravkan king. The formal Ravkan hunt forbade the use of firearms, but I noticed that several of the servants had rifles on their backs, just in case the animals proved to be too much for their noble masters, I assumed.

“Quite a gathering,” I said, coming up beside him. “These boar must be more prolific than Nikolai implied. A few hundred times more prolific.”

Mal snorted. “This is nothing. Another group of servants left before dawn to set up the camp. Saints forbid a prince of Ravka should be kept waiting on a hot cup of tea.”

I snorted just as a horn blew and the riders began to fall into place in a clatter of hooves and clanking stirrups. Mal shook his head and gave a firm tug on the cinch. “Those boar had better be deaf,” he grumbled.

I glanced around at the glittering uniforms and high-polished boots. “You know if you want different clothes at some point,” I offered, carefully choosing to say different, not better, “all you have to do is say so, right? I've never really seen you and the twins as under-dressed, personally, but this. . . . It's all very. . . shiny,” I said, scrunching up my nose in distaste.

Mal laughed at my expression. “There’s a reason peacocks aren’t birds of prey,” he said with a grin. It was an easy, open smile, the first I’d seen outside of stolen private moments in a long time. I knew some of it had to do with the time we'd gotten last night, but that wasn't just it. _He’s happy to be going,_ I realized. _He’s grumbling about it, but he’s glad._ Warmth spread through me at the sight.

“So you’re like a big brown hawk?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

“Or an overstuffed pigeon,” I offered helpfully.

“Let’s stick with hawk.”

The others were mounting up, turning their horses to join the rest of the party as they headed down the gravel path.

“Let’s go, Oretsev,” called a tracker with sandy hair.

I felt suddenly awkward, keenly aware of the people surrounding us, of their inquisitive stares. Just the fact that I had shown up to say goodbye would probably fuel the gossip mongers for weeks.

“Well,” I said uncomfortably, suddenly painfully self-conscious, patting his horse’s flank, “have fun. Try not to shoot anyone too important.”

“Got it. Wait, _don’t_ shoot anyone important?”

“Not right away, at least.” I smiled, but it felt a little bit forced. This was obviously good for him, and I loved that, but I still hated to see him go.

We stood there a moment longer, the silence stretching out between us. I wanted to slip my arms around him, bury my face in his neck, make him promise to be safe. But I didn’t.

A rueful smile touched his lips. He bowed.

“Moi soverenyi,” he said. My heart twisted in my chest.

“Mal,” I said, halting him. He stopped and turned back to me.

I leaned in, careful to keep my face neutral, and said in a low voice. “When you get back, I expect us to start making up for lost time.”

He blinked at me, a lovely, satisfying blush spreading up his cheeks. “Understood,” he rumbled. Only someone who knew him well would hear the hitch under the even, deferential tone.

He climbed into the saddle and kicked his horse forward, disappearing in the sea of riders flowing toward the golden gates.

Despite the levity and excited anticipation I felt after that promise, I found my spirits sinking as I approached the Little Palace. It would have been hard to watch him leave, but I thought it was harder not being able to watch – not having the choice. Forcing myself to walk away before his horse even started moving, because at least once, probably every pair of eyes there had been watching.

It was still early, but the day was already growing warm. Tamar was waiting for me when I emerged from the wooded tunnel.

“He’ll be back soon enough,” she said. “No need to look so glum.”

I stuck my tongue out at her. Her laugh was contagious enough to get a chuckle and a small smile out of me. As we passed the stables, I told her, “At Keramzin, I had a doll I made out of an old sock that I used to talk to whenever he was away hunting. Maybe I should raid the clotheslines and find a sewing kit, give myself a few puncture wounds to pass the time.”

“You were an odd little girl.”

“Of course I was! You didn't think all of this magnificence had sprung fully formed from the ground, did you? It took years of careful cultivation. But yes, I was an odd girl, and everyone knew it. Mal was my only friend for years. What did you and Tolya play with?”

“The skulls of our enemies.”

I saw the glint in her eye, and we both burst out laughing.

Down at the training rooms, I finally introduced Tamar and Botkin, who I had been excited for her and her brother to meet. The old mercenary was instantly enchanted with the woman, and they yammered away at each other in Shu for over ten minutes before I managed to raise the issue of training the Fabrikators.

“Botkin can teach anyone to fight,” he said in his thick accent. The dim light gave the ropy scar at his throat a pearly sheen. I thought of the one on mine, visible only as a pale shimmer if the light hit it at just the right angle. “Taught little girl to fight, no?”

“Yes,” I agreed, unintentionally wincing at the memory of Botkin’s grueling drills and the beatings I’d taken at his hands.

“But little girl is not so little anymore,” he said taking in the gold of my kefta. “You come back to train with Botkin. I hit big girl same as little girl.”

“That’s very egalitarian of you,” I said. “And I plan to. Your training saved me more than once while I was. . . away. Besides, no one bruises me quite the same way you do. I have all this unmarred skin now, and I hardly know what to do with myself.” At the look in his eye, I hurried to make an excuse and dragged Tamar out of the stables before Botkin decided to show us just how fair-minded he could be.

I went straight from the stables to another war council meeting, then I had just enough time to tidy my hair and brush off my kefta before heading back to the Grand Palace to join Nikolai as the King’s advisers briefed him on Os Alta’s defenses.

To my shock, he had convinced his parents to leave off Fabrikator requests. The King and Queen planned to take to it with great fanfare, proclaiming it an act of national pride and solidarity with our brave soldiers. I didn't believe for a moment that he hadn't choreographed it just that way to appeal to his parents' vanity – not that I'd ever put it to him like that.

I felt a bit like we were children who had intruded on the adults at the briefing. The advisers made it clear that they felt we were wasting their time. But Nikolai seemed unfazed. He asked careful questions about armaments, the number of troops stationed around the city walls, the warning system that was in place in case of attack. Soon the advisers had lost their condescending air and were conversing with him in earnest, asking about the weaponry he’d brought with him from across the Fold and how it might be best deployed. Watching him was educational and downright humbling.

He had me give a short description of the nichevo’ya to help make the case for arming the Grisha with the new weapons as well. The advisers, like most everyone else, were still deeply suspicious of the Second Army, but on the walk back to the Little Palace, Nikolai seemed unconcerned.

“They’ll come around in time,” he said, tone light. “That’s why you need to be there, to reassure them and to help them understand that the Darkling isn’t like other enemies.”

“Do they not realize that?” I asked incredulously.

“They don’t want to realize it. If they can maintain the belief that the Darkling can be bargained with or brought to heel, then they don’t have to face the reality of the situation.”

“. . . And these are the people who are in charge of our country?” I had the brief thought that it was no wonder the Darkling wanted to take it over and scrub it clean, but immediately crushed it. The day I started empathizing with the Darkling was the day I planned a surprise party for Baghra, complete with cake and streamers. And gifted him with my complete and obsequious surrender.

“I suppose I can’t blame them,” I allowed. It was all well and good to talk about troops and walls and warnings, but if I was being honest, I doubted it would make much - if any - difference against the Darkling’s shadow soldiers.

When we emerged from the tunnel, Nikolai said, “Walk with me down to the lake?”

I hesitated.

“I promise not to drop to one knee and start composing ballads to your beauty. I just want to show you something.”

I eyed him for a long moment, then nodded my assent. “Only because you called me pretty.”

Nikolai smiled. It turned into a grin, and when I gave him a quizzical look, he just shook his head, and said in a casual tone, “You should see if the Corporalki can do something about that blush.”

Aghast, my hands flew up to my cheeks. They felt perfectly cool. I cuffed him hard across the shoulder. “I am not blushing!” I cried. “Ass!”

He laughed heartily, and at the sight and sound, I felt the odd sensation of warmth spreading from my chest, all the way down my arms and legs.

 _Oh sweet Saints,_ I realized in horror. _I'm actually starting to like this idiot._

“But you thought you might be,” he countered.

“No, I made the mistake of thinking for one piteous, delirious moment that I could trust you,” I grumbled. Then, in a bright tone, added, “That's ok, though. You've taught me another useful lesson this afternoon. I doubt it will play out well for you in the end, but I am grateful all the same.”

He huffed a laugh. “I can think of worse things than a religious icon, military leader, and all around savior of the realm being ingratiated to me.”

“Keep dreaming, sweet prince,” I cooed.

Halfway down to the lake, Nikolai stopped on the gravel path, and I joined him there. He pointed to a strip of beach on the far shore, a short distance from the school. “I want to construct a pier there,” he said.

“Short on fishing holes, your Majesty?”

He shook his head. “I want to rebuild the Hummingbird.”

“. . . You do realize it's going to be hard to run the country if you're dead, right? Don’t you have enough on your plate?”

He squinted out at the glittering surface of the lake. “Alina, I’m hoping we can find a way to defeat the Darkling. But if we can’t, we need a way to get you out.”

That sobered me immediately, and I felt dread creeping up my neck, turning to a metallic taste in my mouth. “How many of these things are you planning on building?” I asked carefully.

“One. I would need an ocean to hold enough planes to get everyone out of here, and several dozen times the number of Squallers we have left.”

I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. “Nikolai,” I said slowly, “I'm supposed to be leading the Grisha. I'm not going to leave them.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that,” he said with a sigh.

“Of course I'd say that,” I protested, feeling ire rise in me. “I'm not a shit. So why did you ask if you knew what I was going to say? I mean, how exactly were you planning to decide who gets to fly off into a dusky sunset with you and who stays behind to be slaughtered by moving nightmares with teeth and claws?”

“Come now,” he said. “You know I’ve always wanted a hero’s funeral.” He looked back at the lake. “I’m happy to go down fighting, but I don’t want my parents left to the Darkling’s mercy. Will you give me two Squallers to train?”

 _“Give_ you? They’re not gifts, Nikolai,” I said peevishly, thinking of the way the Darkling had made a present of Genya to the Queen. “They're not scarves for me to loan out. I’ll ask for volunteers. Just don’t tell them what it’s for. I don’t want people to think we've lost before we started.” Or start fighting for places aboard the craft. “One more thing, though,” I said, my voice going suddenly uncertain. “I want you to make room for Baghra. The old woman who lives in the hut off the lake path. She shouldn’t have to face him again,” I finished in a near whisper.

“Of course,” he said, looking at my curiously. Then he added, “I still believe we can win, Alina.”

“Oh,” I said lightly, “I know. But you wouldn't be you if you weren't ready for every reasonable outcome at least ten moves in advance. And twice as many unreasonable ones. You must be positively deadly at chess.” Without looking at him, I turned to go inside. “Doesn't mean I don't still think you're a prat,” I said over my shoulder.

I heard his quiet huff of laughter and didn't suppress my smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Thank you all for waiting so patiently for this chapter. <3 Next chapter is where things start to get _really_ fun.~~
> 
>  
> 
> I, a perfectionist who is almost virgo levels of particular, have had a pretty gd incredible beta reader dropped into my lap. She'll be working with me from here out, so if the story gets exponentially more awesome, I am not solely to blame.
> 
> ~~Hopefully, hoooooopefully, the wait for the next chapter won't be so long. Thanks for sticking with me. <3~~
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. I noticed like five horrible errors here right after I hit "post." If there are more, it's not my beta's fault. It's the fault of the fact that I fail at Google docs.


	17. Saintsforsaken

David had managed to slip away again after the last council meeting, and it was late the following evening before I had a free moment to corner him in the Fabrikator workrooms. I found him hunched over a pile of blueprints, his fingers stained with ink.

I watched him from the doorway for several minutes, apparently completely unnoticed by him, though Ruslan and the only other Fabrikator present greeted me with nods. Most of the Fabrikators were still at dinner. Eventually, I settled myself on a stool beside David and cleared my throat. He looked up, blinking owlishly. He was so pale I could see the blue tracery of veins through his skin, and someone had given him a very bad haircut.

 _Probably did it himself,_ I thought with an inward shake of my head. Sometimes it was hard to believe that this was the boy Genya had fallen so hard for.

His eyes flicked to the collar at my neck. He began to fidget with the items on his worktable, moving them around and arranging them in careful lines: a compass, graphite pencils, pens and pots of ink in different colors, pieces of clear and mirrored glass, a hard-boiled egg that I assumed was his dinner, and page after page of drawings and plans that I couldn’t begin to make sense of.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

He blinked again. “Dishes.”

“Ah.”

“Reflective bowls,” he said. “Based on a parabola.”

“How... fascinating?” I managed.

He scratched his nose, leaving a giant blue smudge along the ridge. I had to suppress a smile at how endearing it was. “It might be a way to magnify your power.”

That sobered me immediately. “Like the mirrors in my gloves?” I’d asked that the Durasts remake them. With the power of two amplifiers, I probably didn’t need them, but the mirrors allowed me to focus and pinpoint light with infinitely more ease and speed than I could on my own. While I worked to catch up, it was a comfort knowing I had them should I need them.

“Sort of,” said David. “If I get it right, it will be a much bigger way to use the Cut.”

“And if you get it wrong?”

“Either nothing will happen, or whoever’s operating it will be blown to bits.”

“Ah. So a minimal risk, then, really. Sounds promising.” _Maybe I could put Sergei or Zoya in charge of the first test,_ I thought wryly.

“I thought so too,” he said without a hint of humor, and bent back to his work.

“David,” I said. He looked up, startled, as if he’d already forgotten I was there. “I need to ask you something.”

His gaze darted to the collar again, then back to his worktable.

I nodded inwardly at what I assumed was his guess. “What do you know about Ilya Morozova?”

David twitched, glancing around the nearly empty room. He was clearly nervous, maybe even frightened.

He looked at the table, picked up his compass, put it down.

Finally, he said in a near whisper, “They called him the Bonesmith.”

A quiver passed through me. I thought of the fingers and vertebrae lying on the peddlers’ tables in Kribirsk. “Why?” I asked. “Because of the amplifiers he discovered?”

David looked up, surprised. “He didn’t find them. He made them.”

It took me a moment to remember how to get my mouth to work. “He used merzost?”

David nodded. So that was why he had looked at Morozova’s collar when Zoya asked if any Grisha had ever had such power. Morozova had been playing with the same forces as the Darkling.

“How?” I asked.

“No one knows,” David said, glancing around the room again. “After the Black Heretic was killed in the accident that created the Fold, his son came out of hiding to take control of the Second Army. He had all of Morozova’s journals destroyed.”

His son? Again, I was faced with the knowledge of how few people knew the Darkling’s secret. Somehow, it still came as a surprise. As far as I knew, he’d never had a son. And there was no way he would destroy something as valuable as Morozova’s journals. Aboard the whaler, he’d said not all the books prohibited the combination of amplifiers. Maybe he’d been referring to Morozova’s writings, rather than the Istorii Sankt’ya as I'd later assumed.

“Why was his son in hiding?” I asked, curious as to how the Darkling had managed to frame such a deception.

This time David frowned as if the answer were obvious. “A Darkling and his heir never live at the Little Palace at the same time. The risk of assassination is too great.”

“...Of course,” I said. It was plausible enough, and after hundreds of years, I doubted anyone would question such a story. It would have simply become a known fact, a tradition, and people did love their traditions. Genya couldn’t have been the first Tailor the Darkling had kept in his employ. “Why would he have had the journals destroyed?”

“They documented Morozova’s experiments with amplifiers. The Black Heretic was trying to recreate those experiments when something went wrong.”

The hair rose on my arms. “And the result was the Fold.” Had this been what it had been about all this time, all these centuries? Merzost? Had he been trying to create his shadow warriors? Make it possible for himself to use an amplifier? Or something else that I couldn't begin to guess at? Suddenly I wondered what other secrets David's mind might hold.

The Durast nodded. “His son had all of Morozova’s journals and papers burned. He said they were too dangerous, too much of a temptation to any Grisha. That’s why I didn’t say anything at the meeting. I shouldn’t even know they ever existed.”

I didn't think for a moment that the Darkling had really had them destroyed. He would have just needed to prove that he opposed what his “father” had stood for so he could stay in power. More likely, he’d hidden them somewhere, or took to memorizing them over the centuries. “So how do you?” I asked.

David looked around the almost empty workshop yet again. “Morozova was a Fabrikator, maybe the first, certainly the most powerful. He did things that no one’s ever dreamed of before or since.” He gave a sheepish shrug. “To us, he’s kind of a hero.”

“Do you know anything else about the amplifiers he created?”

David shook his head. “There were rumors of others, but the stag was the only one I’d ever heard of.”

It was possible David had never even seen the Istorii Sankt’ya, or if he had, he hadn’t drawn the same conclusion from Ilya’s picture that the Darkling had. The Apparat had claimed that the book was once given to all Grisha children when they arrived at the Little Palace--but that was long ago. The Grisha put their faith in the Small Science, and I’d never known them to bother with religion. _Superstition,_ the Darkling had called the red book. _Peasant propaganda._ Clearly David hadn’t made the connection between Sankt Ilya and Ilya Morozova. Or he had something to hide.

“David, why are you here?” I asked kindly. “You fashioned the collar. You must have known what he intended. Or at least had an idea. You helped him; why not stay with him?”

He swallowed. “I knew he would be able to control you, that the collar would allow him to use your power.” A sharp jab of anger washed through me, taking me by surprise. “But I never thought, I never believed... all those people....” He struggled to find the words. Finally, he held out his ink-stained hands and said, almost pleadingly. “I make things. I don’t destroy them.”

I wanted to believe that he had underestimated the Darkling’s ruthlessness. I’d certainly made that mistake. So had many others. But if he wasn't lying, and I didn't truly think he was, then was he just weak? A fool? _Which is worse?_ hissed a ruthless voice in my head. _If he can change sides once, he can do it again. How long until your way is the mistake?_ Was it Nikolai’s voice? The Darkling’s? Or was it just the part of me that had learned to trust no one?

“The thing is, David,” I said carefully, “tools don't have any choice what they're used for. And that’s all any of us is to the Darkling. Without the choice, we don’t get to take any of the blame, either. Which is easy to say - I had less control than you did, and I still blame myself for every person who died. I still see them when I sleep.

“In the end, you were the one of us who had a choice. Don't forget that. Don't forget what it feels like to know you're doing the wrong thing, and to choose to do it anyway.” _You're giving him permission to defy you whenever he feels like it,_ that angry voice spat at me.

“...Good luck with the dishes.” I rose to leave.

David hunched over his papers. “I don’t believe in luck.”

 _Too bad,_ I thought. _We could really use some._

 

 * * * * *

 

I went straight from the Fabrikator workrooms to the library and spent most of the night there. It was an exercise in frustration. The Grisha histories I searched had only the most basic information on Ilya Morozova, despite the fact that he was considered the greatest Fabrikator who ever lived. He had invented Grisha steel, a method of making unbreakable glass, and a compound for liquid fire so dangerous that he destroyed the formula just twelve hours after he created it. But any mentions of amplifiers or the Bonesmith had been expunged.

That didn’t stop me from returning early the next morning and again in the evening to bury myself in religious texts and any reference I could find to Sankt Ilya. Like most Saints’ tales, the story of his martyrdom was depressingly brutal: One day, a plow had overturned in the fields behind his home. Hearing the screams, Ilya ran to help, only to find a man weeping over his dead son, the boy’s body torn open by the blades, the ground soaked through with his blood. Ilya had brought the boy back to life—and the villagers had thanked him for it by clapping him in irons and tossing him into a river to sink beneath the weight of his chains.

The details were hopelessly muddy. Sometimes Ilya was a farmer, sometimes a mason or a woodworker. He had two daughters or one son or no children at all. A hundred different villages claimed to be the site of his martyrdom. Then there was the small problem of the miracle he’d performed. I had no problem believing that Sankt Ilya might be a Corporalnik Healer, but Ilya Morozova was supposed to be a Fabrikator. What if they weren’t the same person at all?

At night, the glass-domed room was lit by oil lamps, and the hush was so deep that I could hear myself breathe. Alone in the dimness, surrounded by shelves and piles of books, it was hard not to feel overwhelmed. But the library seemed like my only hope, so I kept at it, one index at a time, one section at a time, one book at a time. I wondered if I should recruit Mal or one of the twins to help.

Tolya found me there one evening, curled up in my favorite chair, struggling to make sense out of a text in ancient Ravkan. “You shouldn’t come here at night without one of us,” he grumped.

I yawned and stretched out my stiff limbs. I was probably more in danger of a shelf falling on me than anything else. “To be fair," I said, "there's only one person in the world who can sneak up on me, Tolya, and I doubt he'd make it this far without someone noticing. Plus there's that whole thing where I can set people on fire with a flick of my fingers. Blind them, cut them in half....” At the look on his face, I amended, “But of course you're right. It was very, er, irresponsible of me? It won't happen again. Sun Summoner's honor.”

Tolya made an acknowledging sound in his chest. “What is that?” He asked, lowering himself down to get a closer view of the book in my lap. He was so huge that it was a bit like having a bear join me for a study session.

“I’m not actually sure. I saw the name Ilya in the index, so I picked it up, but I can’t make sense of it.”

“It’s a list of titles.”

“You can read it?” I asked in surprise.

“We were raised in the church,” he said, skimming the page.

I looked at him. “So was I. So were a lot of children. That doesn’t mean we can read liturgical Ravkan. You are a wealth of surprises. What does it say?”

He ran a finger down the words beneath Ilya’s name. His huge hands were covered in scars. Beneath his roughspun sleeve, I could see the edge of a tattoo peeking out.

“Not much,” he said. “Saint Ilya the Beloved, Saint Ilya the Treasured. There are a few towns listed, though, places where he’s said to have performed miracles.

I hummed thoughtfully. “That might be a place to start.”

“You should explore the chapel. I think there are some books in the vestry.”

“The royal chapel?” I asked.

He nodded his big head, still skimming the pages.

I had walked past it plenty of times, but had never been inside. I’d always thought of it as the Apparat’s domain, and even with him gone, I wasn’t sure I wanted to visit. “What’s it like?”

Tolya lifted his huge shoulders. “Like any other chapel.”

A question I’d wanted to ask more than once suddenly came to mind. “Tolya,” I began curiously, “did you ever even consider joining the Second Army?” He was a force to be reckoned with as a Heartrender and a fighter. As a soldier he would have been positively indispensable.

He looked offended. “I wasn’t born to serve the Darkling.” I wanted to ask what he had been born for, or who he had been born to serve, but he tapped the page and said, “I can translate this for you, if you like.” He grinned. “Or maybe I’ll just make Tamar do it.”

I grinned back. “I'll be happy either way. As long as you don't tell her I gave you my blessing to foist work off on her. Honestly, there are so many books to comb through in here, I was giving thought to recruiting you three for help anyway.”

“Anything you need,” he rumbled, and bent his head. It was just a bow, but he was still kneeling beside me, and there was something about his pose that sent a shiver through the center of me.

He stayed that way, as though waiting for something. Slowly, tentatively, I reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. As soon as my fingers slipped onto his tunic and came to rest, he let out a breath. It was almost a sigh. I tensed, uncertain what had just happened, but left my hand in place.

We stayed there for a long moment, silent in the halo of lamplight. Then he rose and bowed again.

“I’ll be just outside the door,” he said, and slipped away into the dark.

It had been as if he was asking for my benediction. And as if I had given it.

 

 * * * * *

 

Mal returned from the hunt the next morning, and I was eager to tell him everything — what I’d learned from David, the plans for the new Hummingbird, my strange encounter with Tolya.

“He’s an odd one,” Mal agreed. “But it still couldn’t hurt to check out the chapel.”

I nodded my agreement. “We could use a day trip, anyway.”

“Alina, it won't even take fifteen minutes to get there.”

“Malyen do not ruin my fun. You've been gone. We're taking a day trip. It will just be a short day trip.”

He rolled his eyes and in the privacy of my chambers, pressed a kiss to my hair. I bit him on the neck in retaliation, just to the painful side of playful.

On the walk over, I asked him to tell me about the hunt. I was careful to keep my hands clasped behind my back and our pace businesslike so anyone who might see us couldn't get any ideas. I resented having to do it the entire time.

“We spent more time every day playing cards and drinking than doing anything else. And some duke got so drunk he passed out in the river. He almost drowned. His servants hauled him out by his boots, but he kept wading back in, slurring something about the best way to catch trout. I'm not sure I've ever had to summon as much control in my life as I did to keep from doubling over and laughing.”

“Was it very traumatic, then?” I asked, laughing.

“It was fine.” He said with a shrug and kicked a pebble down the path with his boot. “There’s a lot of curiosity about you.”

“How terribly shocking. So? How many illegitimate children have I given birth to? How many demons do I secretly worship? Is my lover perhaps one of Vasily's horses?”

“One of the royal trackers is sure your powers are fake.”

“And how would I manage that?” I asked with an incredulous laugh.

“I believe there’s an elaborate system of mirrors, pulleys, and possibly hypnotism involved. I got a little lost.”

“That would all be so very mobile, I can see how the idea would make sense to someone of such obvious intelligence.”

“It wasn’t all funny,” he said, sobering. “When they were in their cups, some of the nobles made it clear they think all of the Grisha should be rounded up and executed.”

The amusement dropped from my face. I wasn't surprised, but that didn't mean I was happy to hear that it had been put to words. Even if half of them would likely never stand behind such an assertion when it mattered, they would just as likely be happy to join a mob calling for our heads if someone thought to begin one in earnest.

“They’re scared,” he said. “And it’s not as if the Grisha have exactly enamored themselves to the people lately.”

“I know,” I sighed. “Just... we're Ravkans, too. It bothers me that they don't stop to think about it. The Darkling is one man, and yes, a lot of Grisha followed him when he fled, but he was the first person in history to give them a place to live where they didn't have to worry about being hunted and tortured their entire lives.

“If anything, people should have more faith in the Grisha who stayed behind. They chose the King, or at least the country, over the Darkling and everything he stood for, everything he gave them. Those men were nobles. Nobles are ingrates, so I get that it would be easy for them to forget everything the Second Army has done for them. But is that how other people feel, too? Soldiers and servants?”

Mal shook his head. There was no easy answer to any of those questions. “I think I made a bit of progress, anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, they liked that you served in the First Army for so long, and that you saved their prince’s life.”

“After he risked his own life rescuing us, and before I gave him a black eye, you mean?”

“I may have taken some liberties with the details.”

“He would be so proud. I take it you took the same liberties about me hiding my powers my whole life and leaving Ravka to the mercy of the Fold?”

He nodded. “The story is that they came to life during that crossing. I don't know if it was the Apparat or the Darkling who started that one, but the priest is calling it your divine awakening.”

I snorted. “Convenient. What else?”

“I told them you hate herring.”

I furrowed my brow at him. “Why?”

“And that you love plum cake,” he went on without answering. “And that Ana Kuya took a switch to you when you ruined your spring slippers jumping in puddles.”

I winced. “Saints, Mal. Was it not good enough to downplay the holy nonsense, you wanted to make me sound like a fool, too?”

“I wanted to make you human,” he said. “All they see when they look at you is the Sun Summoner. They see a threat, another powerful Grisha like the Darkling. I want them to see a daughter or a sister or a friend. I want them to see Alina.”

“That--” I felt a lump rise in my throat. “That's brilliant, Mal. Do you practice being wonderful?”

“Daily,” he said with a grin and a wink. “But I prefer ‘useful.’”

I huffed a laugh. “We can argue the merits of each into our old age. Personally I think you have an unhealthy preoccupation with keeping busy. How have you not learned to skate by on your good looks?” I teased, bumping my shoulder against his when my net told me no one was around.

The royal chapel was the only remaining building of a monastery that had once stood atop Os Alta, and it was said to be where the first Kings of Ravka had been crowned. Compared to the other structures on the palace grounds, it was a humble building, small and sturdy with whitewashed walls and a single bright blue dome.

It was empty and looked like it could use a good cleaning. The pews were covered in dust, the carpet that ran between them was faded, and there were pigeons roosting in the eaves. As we walked up the aisle, Mal took my hand, and my heart gave a little thrum. I squeezed his fingers tightly and rested my forehead against his shoulder with a warm smile.

We didn’t waste much time in the vestry. The few books on its shelves were a disappointment, nothing more than a bunch of copies of old hymnals with crumbling, yellowed pages. The only thing of real interest in the chapel was the massive triptych behind the altar. A riot of color, its three huge panels showed thirteen saints with benevolent faces. I recognized some of them from the Istorii Sankt’ya: Lizabeta with her bloody roses, Petyr with his burning arrows. And there was Sankt Ilya with his collar and fetters and broken chains.

“No animals,” Mal observed.

“From what I’ve seen, he’s never pictured with the amplifiers, only with the chains. Except in the Istorii Sankt’ya.” I just didn’t know why. “I'd be curious to see if other copies show him like that.”

He looked at me.

I shrugged a shoulder. “The Apparat was odd and unnerving, but he clearly had some secrets, and a fixation on me. When he gave me the book, he acted like it was something special. Maybe it was. The Darkling certainly took an interest in it, and whatever else he is, he’s not a fool.”

Most of the triptych was in fairly good condition, but Ilya’s panel had sustained bad water damage. The Saints’ faces were barely visible under the mold, and the damp smell of mildew was nearly overpowering. I pressed my nose to my sleeve.

“There must be a leak somewhere,” said Mal. “This place is a mess.”

My eyes traced the shape of Ilya’s face beneath the grime. I ran my fingers over the wooden borders as if doing so would reveal some secret. Another dead end. I didn’t like to admit it, but I’d gotten my hopes up. Again, I sensed that pull, that hungry emptiness at my wrist that shot up my arm to the center of my chest, and found myself rubbing it. Where was the firebird?

“We can stand here all day,” Mal said, “but he’s not going to start talking.”

As I felt a prickle off annoyance at the disappointment of yet another dead end, we turned to go back down the aisle -- and I stopped short.

The Darkling was waiting in the gloom by the entrance, seated in a shadowy pew.

I sucked in a breath.

“What is it?” Mal asked, following my gaze.

I waited, perfectly still. _See him,_ I begged silently. _Please, please see him._

Mal's eyes scanned the area I was staring at, then fell back to me. “Alina? What's wrong?”

I dug my nails into my palms. “Nothing,” I said, staring. “But do you mind if I have a minute to look around in here alone? You could maybe see if we missed anything out front. Look for secret cubbies or something.” I suggested in a questionably light tone.

He gave me an odd look, but agreed uncertainly and headed back to the vestry, leaving me standing in the dust, staring at the specter of the Darkling.

Every muscle in my body was tight. All my past encounters with this thing flashed through my mind: the attack on the Fold, the field outside of Kribursk, the night in my room, his voice waking me. I suppressed a shudder at the memory of his very real-feeling touch. Whatever this thing was, it obviously wasn't going to stop appearing, which meant that doing nothing but panicking every time I saw it was no longer on my list of options.

Slowly, I walked up to the pew where it was seated. It turned its head to watch me as I approached. Its cool gray eyes were unnervingly, perfectly like the Darkling's as they tracked my movements with that studying gaze that I found so unsettling. Whatever it was, it was an utterly flawless copy. When my hands started to tremble, I clutched at the skirt of my kefta. I refused to be so scared of anything that looked like the Darkling, even if it was here to haunt me or drive me mad.

I reached out a shaking hand to touch its shoulder, praying that it would pass through like it should, and knowing somehow that it wouldn't.

My fingers met the feel of cloth and the solidity of bone under flesh. I sucked in a breath despite myself and yanked my hand back. Or tried to. Its own hand darted out and grabbed me by the wrist, its face cool and impassive.

Shoving down the fear I felt that teetered dangerously toward panic and choking off a whimper, I whispered, “What are you?” It was barely loud enough for me to hear.

Fingers still grasping my wrist, it stood up, graceful and unhurried. Its grip became gentle. Its thumb stroked over the skin on the inside of my wrist, back and forth, reminding me of the way the Darkling had caressed the scar on my hand in the war room many, many months ago.

A tremble of another sort wormed its way through me.

“Perhaps I'm your punishment,” it said in that cool, clear voice.

“For what?” I breathed.

“Alina?” I heard Mal ask from the next room. “Did you say something?”

A cold smile spread across its face. Then its gaze turned speculative. It stepped closer, and I tried to back away but it stopped me with a hand on my back, holding me flush against it. My heart hammered in fear, shot through with elusive wisps of something I refused to look at.

“Or perhaps, Alina,” it said, its low voice quiet, almost speculative, “you'd prefer I was your reward?” It canted its head at me. “Am I the part of you that refuses to continue lying to itself? Do you grow tired of pretending?”

It ducked its head to meet my eyes. I tried again to back away, but its hand at my back was unyielding and just as strong as the real Darkling's.

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and my head snapped to the doorway. Mal stood in it, a quizzical look on his face, but when he took me in it changed to worry. My gaze whipped back around to the specter of the Darkling, but it was gone. I looked down at my wrist. I could still feel its fingers curled around me and its hand pressed to my back.

“Alina.” Mal gripped my shoulders. “You're trembling. You look white as the walls.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but I couldn't make words come out. I tried and failed again. I managed to shake my head, a stymied look on my face.

He sighed and closed his eyes. I could practically hear his thoughts: _This again. Why won't you tell me?_ But he pulled me to him gently and, as he had in my room, held me until the trembling stopped.

From behind me, the Darkling's voice chuckled and said quietly, as if right next to my ear, “You should work on your composure, _soverenyi.”_ Its voice was mocking when it said the last word, and I felt a puff of warm air on my ear. I only clung more tightly to Mal.

I felt better when we were out in the fresh air, away from the moldy smell of the chapel, but my mind was racing. This was not going to stop happening.

The Darkling’s face had been unscarred and fleshed out. Mal hadn’t seen him - it. Nikolai, soldiers, the twins, and a school full of children hadn't seen it. That must mean it wasn’t real, just some kind of vision. Was it a consequence of the wound on my shoulder? Is that why he'd had his creature bite me, to make sure I could truly never escape him, no matter how far I ran or how well I hid?

But he’d touched me that night in my rooms. I’d felt his fingers on my cheek. I'd felt his grip on my wrist, his hand on my back, the cloth of his kefta, even the waft of his breath as he spoke. What kind of hallucination could do that?

I suppressed a quiver as we passed into the woods. Was this some manifestation of the Darkling’s new powers? I was terrified by the prospect that he might have somehow found a way into my thoughts, but the other possibility was worse.

 _You cannot violate the rules of this world without a price._ I pressed my arm to my side, feeling the sea whip’s scales bite into my skin. _Forget Morozova and his madness._ Maybe this had nothing to do with the Darkling at all. Maybe it was a punishment.

“Mal,” I began, not certain what I intended to say, “the third amp--”

He put a finger to his lips, and in the next second, I heard the rustling of feet and Vasily emerged from the trees.

I wasn’t used to seeing the prince anywhere except the Grand Palace, and for a moment, I just stood there, blinking. Then I recovered from my surprise and bowed.

Vasily acknowledged me with a nod, ignoring Mal completely. A muscle in my jaw twitched.

“Moi tsarevich,” I said in greeting.

“Alina Starkov,” the prince replied with a smile. “I hope you will grant me a moment of your time.”

“Of course,” I replied.

“I’ll be right down the path,” Mal said, shooting Vasily a hard, suspicious look. I had to stop myself from telling him to stay. It wasn't my place with the tsarevich here.

The prince watched him go. “The deserter hasn’t quite learned his place, has he?”

“On the contrary,” I said sweetly, only just hiding the sharp edge of my voice. “He knows it quite well.” I bit down on the rest of my anger. Then, brightening my voice, “What can I do for you, moi tsarevich?”

“Please,” he said, “I would prefer you call me Vasily, at least when we are in private.”

I blinked, and a pit formed in my stomach. I’d never been alone with the prince before, and I didn’t want to be now. This couldn't possibly be what I was starting to dread it was.

“How are you settling in at the Little Palace?” he asked.

“Very well, thank you, moi tsarevich.”

“Vasily.”

“Certainly it's not appropriate to speak to you so informally, your Highness,” I tried politely.

“You call my brother by his given name.”

“I met him under... unique circumstances.”

“I know he can be very charming,” Vasily said. “But you should know that he’s also very deceptive, and very clever.”

 _That’s certainly true,_ I thought even as part of me argued _And you know him so well? How many times have you even seen him in the last fifteen years?_ All I said was, “The charming ones usually are, Highness. Prince Nikolai has a... unique mind.”

Vasily chortled. “What a diplomat you’ve become! You’ve a most refreshing way about you. Given time, I have no doubt that despite your humble antecedents, you will learn to conduct yourself with the restraint and elegance of a noblewoman.”

I held back a biting comment and managed, “Your highness is perhaps more optimistic than I am.” I almost kept the dry note from my voice.

Vasily gave a disapproving sniff. I needed to get out of this conversation before I offended him. Vasily might be a fool, but he was still a prince. “Indeed no,” he said with a stilted laugh. “You have a delightful candor.”

“Thank you,” I said carefully. “If you’ll excuse me, your Highness—”

Vasily stepped into my path. “I don’t know what arrangement you’ve made with my brother, but you must realize that he’s a second son. Whatever his ambitions, that’s all he ever will be. Only I can make you Queen.”

There it was. I heaved an internal sigh and fought to keep my jaw relaxed.

“You assume I have any interest in being Queen, moi tsarevich.”

“Vasily.”

“Only a king can make a queen,” I reminded him.

Vasily waved this talk away. “My father won’t live much longer. I as good as rule Ravka now.”

 _Is that what you call it?_ I thought with a surge of irritation. _And such familial loyalty._ I doubted Vasily would even be in Os Alta if Nikolai didn’t present a threat to his crown, but held my tongue.

“You’ve risen high for a Keramzin orphan,” he went on, “but you might rise higher still.”

I fought to keep from clenching my fists. A dull light, too weak for human eyes to make out, was collecting against my skin. “I can assure you, moi tsarevich,” I said with complete honesty, “I have no such ambitions or desires.”

“Then what do you want, Sun Summoner?”

“Ultimately? To defeat the Darkling and close the Fold, then disappear back into obscurity. More immediately, however, I'd like nothing more than to go and have my lunch.”

His lower lip jutted out sulkily, and for a moment, he looked just like his father. Then he smiled.

“You’re a smart woman,” he said, “and I think you’ll prove a useful one. I look forward to deepening our acquaintance.”

“Your Highness is too kind,” I said, unwilling to even pretend polite agreement.

He took my hand and pressed his moist mouth to my knuckles. “Until then, Alina Starkov.”

I went rigid as stone as I stifled a gag. When he strode off, I wiped my hand on my kefta roughly and let my disgust show on my face.

Mal was waiting for me at the edge of the woods.

“What was that about?” he asked, his face worried.

“Another saintsforsaken marriage proposal.” I said coldly. “Maybe I should declare myself publically celibate.”

“You can’t be serious,” Mal said with a disbelieving laugh. “He doesn’t waste any time.”

I made a disgusted noise. “Power is alliance,” I intoned, imitating Nikolai.

“Should I offer my felicitations?” Mal asked, but there was no edge to his voice, only amusement.

“What, _his_ proposal doesn't bother you?”

Mal snorted. “He's a prat.”

“Well then yes, by all means, offer me your congratulations. You can be my maid of honor, in fact. You'd look lovely in a bright pink gown with flowers in your hair.... Do you think the Darkling had to deal with unwanted advances from wet-lipped royals, though?” I asked, making a sour face and wiping the back of my hand again for good measure.

Mal snickered.

“What’s so funny?”

“I just pictured the Darkling being cornered by a sweaty duchess trying to have her way with him.”

I snorted and then started to laugh outright despite myself. Nikolai and Vasily were so different, it was hard to believe they shared any blood at all. Unbidden, I remembered Nikolai’s kiss, the rough feel of his mouth on mine as he’d held me to him, and sobered. I shook my head. _They may be different,_ I reminded myself, _but they both want to use you just the same._

Mal pulled me out of my thoughts when he steered me toward the trees abruptly. He whispered urgently for me to cast us invisible, and I did so immediately, feeling around for any threat, but all that was there was Vasily's distant, retreating form. I looked up just as Mal pressed my back against a tree and began kissing along the column of my neck. My head fell back with a groan, and he put his hand over my mouth.

“You said you wanted to make up for lost time,” he whispered. “I am more than happy to help. Now just don't get us caught,” he nearly growled, nipping at my collar bone through the fabric of my kefta.

We got a very admirable start.

 

 * * * * *

 

I closed my bedroom doors behind me and let my head fall against them with a soft thud. My eyelids sliding closed and for a time, I just melted away, filling my lungs with slow, warm breaths, a smile creeping onto my face. I had slipped into my room immediately for some time to myself. I'd spend it on paperwork or research, but there would be no one to sour my mood.

When I opened my eyes, it was to find the phantom sitting at my desk, watching me closely.

I froze. But a moment ticked by and it stayed where it was. A minute passed, then two, and still it made no move toward me. It only sat, motionless, watching me as I stood watching it. Carefully, I forced myself to settle. I made my muscles unclench, my breath return to my belly. Never taking my eyes off of it, I cracked one of the bed chamber doors open.

“Tolya,” I said, affecting lightness and working to make my voice sound calm. “I'll take my dinner in here tonight.”

I saw the big man nod out of the corner of my eye as he gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

“Make sure whoever brings it waits to be invited in,” I added. “As a matter of fact, make that a new rule, even for the guard.”

He agreed again, apparently unconcerned about the order one way or the other.

I closed the door with a soft click, eyes still glued to the specter. I remembered my decision to stop acting afraid of it, stop panicking when it showed up out of the blue. What if it appeared during a meeting and started talking to me? Touched me in the throne room in front of the King and Queen? I’d be removed as leader of the Second Army at best.

Methodically, I folded my arms over my chest and leaned my shoulders back against the door. “You're obviously not going to tell me what you are,” I said carefully. “So how about what in the nine hells you want with me? Why do you keep showing up?”

Something dangerously close to a smirk curled over its lips and eyes shifted to molten, if veiled, self-satisfaction.

I narrowed my own eyes at it. Mulishly refusing to be cowed by a figment of my own imagination, no matter who it looked like, I walked slowly but cautiously toward the desk until I was close enough to rest my fingertips on its polished surface.

“If you wanted to drive me mad," I went on, "you'd be acting far less annoying and far more... vaguely menacing,” I said, waving a hand. “You know, more like when you tried to slice through my face on the Unsea. Less like,” I suppressed bile at the memory of the fear I’d felt, “stroking my cheek tenderly and staring at me from fields of grass. So. If you're going to keep showing up and pointlessly bothering me, how about we figure out a better way to coexist? Maybe you know a good recipe for pirozhki, for instance. Our cook is woefully gentrified. Your... well, the real you, had a ridiculously superficial notion of humility instilled into this place. Perhaps he didn't feel quite so lonely knowing that everyone around him was just as fake as he was, even if they didn't know it.”

An amused sort of smile twitched at its lips.

A muscle jumped in my jaw, but I only gazed at it, then nodded. “I see. So when I'm interested in talking, you want to play coy, and when I want to be left alone, you have nothing better to do than haunt my steps. So basically you’re a big imaginary cat with boundary issues. I don’t like cats. I’m not overfond of any animal, to be honest.

”If you were from my mind, you'd know how much I hate it when people play coy. All you've done so far is taunt me and fake affection.... Much like the real Darkling, come to think of it.” I gave a dramatic little sigh. “And here I was so stubbornly clinging to the notion that you weren't real. Good thing it's literally impossible that you are, or I might be having some sort of breakdown right now.

“So, what then, are you a piece of himself he put in me through the nichevo'ya bite?” I smiled coldly. “Too frustrated he couldn't do it the old fashioned way, so he had to find a workaround?”

That only seemed to amuse it more.

I fought to keep the annoyance from my face at its composed impassivity, its settled arrogance. It was certainly a very _good_ imitation of the Darkling.

“If I'm no more than a part of you, shouldn't you know the answers to those questions?” It asked, a patronizing sort of tilt to its head. But there was something under the almost mocking look that I couldn’t place.

I ground my teeth together and briefly had a mournful thought for the peaceful, private evening I'd had planned. “You're just as good at being obnoxiously evasive as he is, too. If you're a hallucination, then I have a much better memory than I ever gave myself credit for. My old senior officer would be pained to hear I might have been halfway decent at my job, after all.”

Its smile widened. “Perhaps you spent more time studying me than you knew.”

I snorted. “And there's the arrogan--”

My last word was interrupted by a soft rap at the door.

“Come in,” I snapped unintentionally. This, too, seemed to amuse the phantom, and I remembered its words in the chapel: _You should work on your composure, soverenyi._ I felt my temper snap like a winter-dry branch and just as the servant was walking up behind me, I picked up a dense statuette off the desk and chucked it hard at the phantom. It hit the back of the heavy chair with a damning thud, no doubt leaving a considerable divot in the carved wood, dropped to the seat, then bounced once before landing on the floor.

The phantom’s smile grew so wide it could almost be called a genuine expression, which only caused my temper to surge even further. Angry light rushed to me, unbidden. Its smile vanished and its eyes snapped to the phenomena.

I felt the poor servant behind me, frozen at my outburst and the light that somehow seemed to convey my anger very effectively, and snapped at her to hurry up and get out. Hastily, she settled the covered tray onto the desk before me, sketched out a quick, shallow curtsy, and hurried from the room. I felt a stroke of guilt, but not enough to wipe away my utter lack of amusement with this thing.

“Don't look so damn self-satisfied!” I snapped at it, and released a burst of bright light to force it to vanish. When the light faded from the room, it was still there.

I heard Tolya's low voice rumbling in a brief, hushed conversation outside my door and felt a prick of exasperation with myself for slipping and acting so strange in front of someone else. I knew how to hold my composure. Granted, I had more of a temper than most people, but that just made my control more noteworthy. This thing, though, was miles beyond trying my patience. It seemed to know exactly where my buttons were. A point in favor of it being imaginary, at least.

"The new servants' colors are lovely," it remarked casually.

Surreptitiously I took a long, deep breath. “...You're in my chair,” I said, carefully affecting calm. A surly calm, but a calm all the same.

“Technically it's my chair,” it said, sweeping its eyes from the warm golden light around me back to my face.

“No, it _was_ your chair. Then you turned into a murdering psychopath, which lead to it becoming _my_ chair.”

It didn't move, so I clenched my teeth and picked up the dinner tray with a silent growl, carefully expelling a heated breath as I did so. I moved to sit on the floor at the foot of my bed, stretching my legs out and crossing them as though relaxed. In reality I was wound taut, and it was obvious that the hallucination knew it.

As I ate, we watched one another, though its eyes dipped more than once to the light collected around me. As I tore and ate chunks from a piece of bread, the luminous glow slowly dissipated until I felt only the barest flush left behind, invisible to the eye. Good. I was calming down. I tried to draw some correlation between the spectre’s appearances and disappearances, something they had in common. If I could, then maybe I could predict when it would show up. But as carefully as I thought back, I could find nothing.

It had said I should know what it was and why it was coming if it really was in my head.... But was it?

I stopped chewing, unable to ignore the pit gnawing at my stomach. “...Am I going mad?” I asked, my voice nearly hollow and suddenly unguarded, distant eyes looking down to the fetter on my wrist. “Would you know if I was? Would you tell me?” I asked quietly, eyes not moving from the iridescent fused scales. I took in the shifting rainbows under their surface, the reflective gold around the top and bottom edges in an attempt to distract myself from my worry.

“You're not going mad, Alina.”

It said it with such calm certainty that despite myself, I felt something in my chest crumple in relief so sharp that a breath whooshed out of me with a muffled sort of eina. Hot tears pricked at my eyes.

This thing wasn't real. I had no reason or right to listen to it, to believe it, but hearing those words from someone, even someone who might be imaginary, who might be a trick or a punishment or a new kind of magic, made me realize exactly how much the fear had been feeding from me these past weeks.

My head fall to the mattress and I pressed the fingers of one hand to my eyes, trying to get myself under control. I sniffled once, forcing back the tears that threatened.

Something snapped in me and suddenly I didn't care if it was imaginary, I didn't care if it looked like the Darkling - it was something that was here and someone I could finally talk to. And really, I could pretend it was anyone if it wasn’t real. Words, fears, and doubts began pouring out of me before I had the chance to even thing about stopping myself.

“I've been changing ever since I took the fetter, and I don't understand it, and there's no one I can talk to. No one even knows I’m seeing you. I'm keeping more and more things to myself, and I feel like I'm going to burst from it.

“Am I imagining you just so I have someone to talk to? And Saints, if I am, why would I imagine the _Darkling_ of all people?” I hesitated to go on, part of me hoping it would answer. I wasn’t looking at it so had no idea what might be on its face; when it didn’t reply, I went on.

“I've had... impulses.” My voice faltered and I shifted uncomfortably, pulling my knees up to my chest as if I could make myself small enough to hide from the truth of my own words. “Urges, hungers, and they frighten me. Out of nowhere I get furious with people, as if something is raring up in me and fighting to take over. And I _want_ it to take over. It’s a blind sense that other people are small and nothing and how dare they argue with me. Hatred. Hypocrites, children, liars, selfish fools....

“I've been irritable before,” I said, a bone-deep weariness in my voice, but the heat of the experiences behind my words there under the surface. “It’s my natural state half the time. But I have never felt anything like what I've felt since returning to this place. I almost murdered Sergei for arguing with me.” I wasn’t sure if it was a sob or a growl that wanted to tear from me at that. “He’s only barely a man, and I flung the Cut at him before I could stop. I had no thought other than shutting him up, silencing the defiance. I missed him by an inch, if that, and only because I caught myself in time. But I... I _wanted_ him not just dead, but in pieces.”

I took in a ragged breath, and when I went on, all I felt was tiredness so deep that my bones may as well have been made of lead. “When I met with the King, I felt more disgust and loathing for him than I knew I was capable of. I actually sympathized with the Darkling for a moment, having to put up with his aggressive incompetence, his utter indifference to his own impotence, and wasn't that surreal. I threatened to take Baghra's only comforts away and turn her out for Saints’ sake." I let out a self-deprecating, soured laugh. “I need this third amplifier, I _need_ it, and I can’t tell any more if it really is just so I can help, or because of the ache I feel on my naked wrist every time I summon my power now." I squeezed my eyes shut against a swell of confused emotion, hot and cold and jagged and furious, frayed edges fighting against sense.

When I collected myself, I took a deep breath and opened my eyes to look at the phantom for the first time since I’d begun. It was watching me closely, though its posture still looked relaxed, at least on the surface. I thought I saw a tension underneath, subtle and well-concealed. Its gaze reminded me of the first time the Darkling had ever looked at me, bored on a high-backed ebony chair while his eyes took me in, full of intensity, as Raevsky murmured in his ear.

“This isn't who I am,” I said to it, almost pleading - whether with it or myself, I didn’t know. “I've never been this person, never wanted to be, and it....” I hesitated, afraid to say this out loud even to something that wasn't real. Or perhaps afraid for that very reason. “It's frightening me. _I’m_ frightening me. I don't know when I'm going to snap, what’s going to trigger it, when I won't be able to stop myself from burning everything white-hot in a fit of pique.

"Baghra blamed the amplifiers. She said there has to be a consequence for taking this kind of power. She said it will only get worse. I still don't know why the Darkling had his monster bite me, but I know there was a reason. Maybe this was it. It pulls and tugs when that monster rears up. Maybe he did something while he kept me asleep on that ship. Or maybe it’s any one of a hundred other things I haven't even thought to consider,” I said, letting my head thud against the mattress again and closing my eyes.

“Your collar. Your fetter. What are they?” Its voice was measured calm.

I tilted my chin down to look at it, confused at the obvious question. “Amplifiers,” I replied.

It watched me, clearly waiting for something.

It didn't take me long to piece together what it wanted me to see. _Amplifier,_ I thought, a heavy dullness sweeping through me, followed swiftly by a horror so cutting that I began to go numb. _To amplify._ I looked up at it, feeling shock and revulsion dawning on my face. “You're telling me that this... that what I've been feeling is actually _me?_ That it's _me_ who has wanted to torment and torture and murder, and the amplifiers are just bringing that to the fore?” My voice was appalled, disgusted, and I fought to keep something between nausea and denial at bay.

“All men have their demons, Alina,” it said, tranquil and cool. “Most walk the world for the whole of their short lives pretending they're not there. Most have the option to do so. You are not most. I should think that was obvious by now.”

I opened my mouth to argue automatically, but no words were waiting to come out. I couldn't find any, either. I closed it.

The phantom was right. It was right, and something deep inside me knew it, as if it had only shown me something that part of me had already known, and I _shuddered_ at the realization.

So, in a way, I was going mad, and I had no control over it. I should tell Nikolai. I should be locked up, I should--

But even as I thought these things, I knew there was nothing anyone could do to hold me, not forever. Not if I didn't want to be held. I could scald and rend, murder and ruin with barely a thought. I could probably lay all of Os Alta to waste and barely grow tired. Even aside from that, if I was being honest, I didn’t want to do anything. I was afraid, yes. But as much as it frightened me every time it happened, there was something about the surges of anger that were like a welcome friend telling me to stop fighting and simply take the control I was due. To let things be easy for once. To stop pretending, stop letting people think I was inferior. That, more than anything, was deeply unsettling.

I'd had bitterness in me, and anger and resentment for as long as I could remember. I just chose not to look at them, because they weren't who I wanted to be. I had felt anger at the war, anger at my parents for dying, anger at the people at the Duke's estate for telling me who I could and couldn't be. I'd felt fury at every woman who approached Mal, rage toward him for every one he led off somewhere and resentment at him for not realizing I was right in front of him. I had felt entitled to the attention I got for the way I looked, superior for what I could do, caustic every time someone held me back or denied me. I had felt disdain for everyone who wasn’t like me and animosity toward proper Grisha for having a life I didn’t.

I had known I wasn't the happiest or softest person, but I had thought I was a _good_ person. Now, I didn't know if that was true. I wasn't sure I knew anything.

I looked inside myself, and what I saw was a bog, dank and dark and festering. I had left these feelings alone, buried deep within myself, to gather and grow into things with teeth and claws and appetites left unsated. Now, in the hands of the most powerful Grisha who ever lived, they were becoming too strong for me to hold back. I had kept myself so ignorant that I had believed the feelings, the urges and impulses, were somehow being forced on me. Just like I hadn't known that I was hiding power from myself all my life until Baghra had all but dragged it out, kicking and thrashing, from the deepest parts of myself. If I took the third amplifier....

I put a hand over my mouth, sick at the very idea.

The Darkling was cruel. He was ruthless, pitiless, merciless, and cold. I wasn’t certain he even remembered what it was like to be human. But he was in control of himself. And for the first time, I wondered what it was like to be him. What it was like not only to be ancient, different and alone and apart, Other, but what it had been like to live so long as the only one of your kind, as power incarnate in a world of creatures so different from you and devoid of anyone who could hope to understand you, except an angry, sharp, domineering mother. I wondered what the world, what Grisha and otkazat'sya must look like to his eyes. I wondered what they looked like to mine.

Would I survive the centuries believing that the world wasn’t so hopelessly broken that drastic measures and sacrificed lives still weren’t an acceptable price - that I had no responsible choice left but to force it to see reason? I was impossibly young compared to the Darkling, and I could barely handle a group of Grisha and nobles without wanting to light things on fire and knock teeth out.

If I took the firebird's cuff, I would be power incarnate. Would I also be a creature totally at the whims of the darkest parts of herself, mindless and unseeing? Would I become a monster worse than a dozen Darklings?

I felt the spectre settle next to me on the floor. I hadn’t noticed that it had moved, and I couldn't even feel the stab of surrealism at seeing something that looked like the Darkling do something so normal as sitting on a floor. It ran his fingers idly over my bare wrist as I sat, shocked and stunned and afraid and perfectly, terribly uncertain.

“You aren’t lost, Alina,” It said quietly, as if it had been reading my mind. Which, I supposed, it probably had been. Its cool fingers gently stroked my wrist, almost absently. “It was impossible to know what to expect when you took the second amplifier. But I planned on being there to help you through it. I could have; I wanted to. I still can.”

I looked over to it, confused to find my vision so blurred that I could only make out a dark shape where it sat. I blinked. Fat, heavy tears spilled over and ran down my cheeks, and it came into focus.

“I'm afraid,” I whispered.

“I know.” It reached a hand up and cupped my cheek, wiping a tear track away with its thumb. It was so real, I could feel the roughness of its thumb. “But you aren't alone. You never will be.”

My fingers flexed with the strange urge to reach up and touch it. All I did was ask, voice still a whisper, “What do I do?”

“Be honest with yourself. Stop fighting what you are. There is no ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’ for you and I, only ‘is’ and ‘isn’t.’ The longer you carry on the lie of the small Alina who kept herself hidden inside an otkazat'sya's life, the more you cling to it out of fear, out of desire, out of anger, the worse this will all be. You have a long, long life ahead of you, Alina, and your power is only going to grow. If you can't come to terms with what you are, the world will not survive you.”

Unbidden, a sob shook my chest and I flung my head hard against the mattress with a growl. Then suddenly, I was up and pacing. “I'm not pretending to be anything, I'm just myself!" The bitterness of a lie tinged the words. "I'm so angry, I'm always so _angry,_ and everyone around me is a saintsforsaken idiot, arguing when they should be listening and helping, when they have no right, being utterly useless and senseless and selfish, like spoiled children! I’m trying to save them and all they do is fight me like it's more important to be right about whether the cliff they're running toward is actually a cliff instead of _listening_ and stopping! They hold me back, they get in my way, and I just want to cut them all down and-”

I was cut off by a sharp rap at the door, and Tolya's concerned voice. “Alina?”

”What?” I snapped. Then I realized that I had been shouting. “I'm fine, Tolya” I added, deflating. I didn't feel guilty. I felt like I should, but I didn't, and I did nothing to erase the sting of my tone.

I bowed my head, fists clenching. “I can't do this,” I said quietly to myself. “I can't.”

“Yes, you can.”

I looked up at it, sitting against the edge of the bed as I had been, one ankle crossed over the other under its inky kefta, fingers intertwined and resting on its lap. It looked relaxed and at ease, a counterpoint to my growing freneticism.

“Be specific or get out,” I snapped, though I was mindful of my volume.

The tiniest of smiles twitched at one corner of its mouth and my fingers flexed in annoyance and in an itch to hit something that wasn’t even there.

“I told you on the night you left this place that everything about you was a series of coincidences, and I wasn’t lying. I waited countless lifetimes for you. Then you came, and you brought the world with you. Pieces I hadn't been able to anticipate or plan for began falling into place. The stag appeared for you. I discovered the sea whip and the firebird because of you. I have an unbeatable army at my fingertips because of you. You wear a second amplifier, and soon you’ll wear a third." As it spoke, it rose an walked toward me.

“I am not and never have been a man of faith, but I don't believe for a moment that all these things, these legends, would surface and come together for the sole purpose of ripping themselves apart. You're going through something as unique and impossible as you are. It's alright to be afraid of it, at least a little. But you will come through the other side as something the world has never seen, and never will again." It took my face in its hands. They were warm and rough and gentle. "You are the sun. Think of the way the people see you now, before you have even done anything. Now imagine that a thousandfold. You will be life to the world. Their savior.” Because I knew him - it - so well, I could hear the buried edge of bitterness in its voice.

I jerked back. “I'm not a megalomaniac,” I snapped. _Not like you._ “I don’t want to be any of those things. I just want to fix the mess that your idiot namesake made and go back to a life that makes sense, a life where I knew who I was. I just want to be....” Alina. I just wanted to be Alina.

It shrugged, unaffected by my temper. “Humility or arrogance, neither affects whether something is true. Neither do denial or desire. You can fight the truth all you like. By all means, take your time getting there. I'm sure the people around you will survive long enough to see it through as everything you suppress fights its way to the surface. Most of them, anyway. Perhaps at least a few of the important ones.”

We were both quiet for a long time.

“Are you going to keep coming back?” I asked, resentment and trepidation and even a little hope, if I could be honest with myself, all tangled up in me.

It nearly smiled. “I told you that you weren't alone, Alina. I meant it.”

_You cannot run from me._

My eyes slid closed, dread and and relief washing through me.

I jumped when I felt its hand slide to rest against the side of my neck. I hadn't heard it move. Its face hovered so close to the other side of my head that I could feel its warm breaths wash over my skin. I kept my eyes closed as it whispered in my ear.

“I will see you again very soon.”

It pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the skin just under the corner of my jaw, and with a sudden feeling of cold loss, its touch was gone. I opened my eyes to find that I was once more alone in my room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pirozhki = mini pies/mini hand pies
> 
> I've started [an AU of this AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8383858/chapters/22792646) wherein Alina never got discovered by the Darkling on the Fold because reasons. Instead, she fled and went to a notorious pirate captain for work and a safe place to hide.
> 
> Also, I went to the [first story chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8243122/chapters/18891134) of Light and Steel to reference something and realized how hesitant the changes I'd made were. It has now been retooled so that it's really "my" Alina in there. Dialogue has been changed and added, too. This is a pre-cursor to the eventual retooling of the whole first "book."


	18. Broken Cog

The Darkling’s “ghost” came back the next night when I was eating with the other Grisha. I was still so raw over what we had talked about that it was almost easy to pretend it wasn’t there at all. Almost. It stood in the center of the triangle of tables and watched me the entire meal, silent and steady, as I tried to ignore the squirming disquiet in my stomach over so much of the Second Army failing to see it standing feet from them.

The night after that, I woke from a dream to find it sitting on the edge of the bed next to me, silently taking me in. I snarled at it for being unsettling and creepy and turned my back to it. Disconcertingly, it was almost easy to go right back to sleep.

The following night I got so lost in work in my bed chamber that Tamar had dinner brought to me.

At least an hour ticked by before I saw a movement right next to me and nearly jumped out of my chair. When my head snapped around and I saw that it was only the phantom, I put a hand on my heart, catching my breath. Then I had the very surreal realization that I had just felt _relieved_ that it was “only” my hallucination.

“You haven't eaten,” it observed.

I looked over at my dinner tray, plate still covered. “Sharp as ever,” I muttered under my breath. Then at a more normal volume said, “I forgot.” Shrugging, I went back to the report I had been reading. Maybe it would go away if I ignored it.

I felt a cool hand on mine, stilling it, and stiffened.

“Eat, Alina,” it said quietly.

I turned to look up at it icily. “Don't tell me what to do. And stop _touching_ me.” I yanked my hand away.

“Don't underestimate the power of small things. Your world could change at any moment. I suggest you keep up your strength while you can.”

I felt a shiver at the words, as if they were some bizarre sort of premonition. Though I wanted to ignore its “advice” on principal, I thought that maybe if I gave it what it wanted, it would shut up. I mulishly pulled the tray off of my long-cooled meal and picked away at it as I worked. To my relief, it seemed content to lean against the nearby wall and watch me.

“Stop staring at me,” I eventually ground out, though I was careful to keep my voice down. “It's creepy.”

I could hear the smile when it replied. “Perhaps you can recommend another way to pass the time? I have a suggestion or two, if you find yourself lacking ideas.”

“Go away,” I replied without looking up. “That should pass it quickly enough for you. Saints know I'm not in danger of boredom any time in the next century if the stack of paperwork and reports waiting for me is any indication.”

“How are you finding it?”

“Finding what? Paperwork? The current century? The total and mind-numbing lack of boredom? Being proposed to every other week?”

“Your position, soverenyi Alina.” This time, unlike in the chapel, there was no mockery in its voice when it said the title, though its tone was hardly deferential and I could hear the hint of a smile in its voice. Or a smirk, I wasn’t sure which.

“It's a festering hellhole, but so is most of life,” I replied absently. “Being a cartographer wasn't especially fun either, but it was a way to pass the time. At least I'm doing something that matters here. And I have help, when I need it.”

“Your tracker?”

I felt a muscle in my face twitch at the fact that even in my imagination, the Darkling refused to say Mal's name. _”Mal_ is very helpful, yes,” I replied acidly. “So is Nikolai, when I need it. Unlike you, who refuses to shut the hell up when I'm trying to work.”

“If you really wanted to be working, would I be here?”

“Does that mean I don’t want to be sleeping when I’m woken up by your lurking, too? Because I’ve always been fond of sleep. Famously so, in fact.”

A sly grin spread over its face. “I didn’t wake you. I just enjoyed the show before you woke yourself.”

For the first time in what seemed like forever, I felt my cheeks flame, one particular instance coming to mind when I had lurched awake from a very personal sort of dream to find it watching me.

I resolutely kept my face turned away from the apparition. _“In any event,_ what exactly was your point in saying that?”

Its lips twitched, a clear indication that it had no intention of answering. In churlish resignation, I sighed and set the papers aside, really looking at it for the first time. It looked as it always did: perfect, cool, unscarred. Inhumanly handsome, uncomfortably. . . welcoming. If not for the fact that I hated it. And above all, completely imperturbable.

An idea occurred to me, and before I could think better of it, I asked, “How do you keep from losing your temper?”

“Don't care about anything enough to lose it over,” it answered readily.

I snorted. “That's not humanly possible. And whatever else he is,” I waved my hand at it, “he's still human. Besides, he lost his temper with me at least once.”

A small smile twitched its lips. I saw amusement there, and cold bitterness.

“Aside from trying to murder the man I love in the most horrifyingly brutal way possible,” I went on, “he handled it fairly well. Even, I think, when he wanted nothing more than to murder me, too.”

“Perhaps he didn't lose his temper at all, then.”

I snorted again.

It canted its head at me. “Think, Alina. What was I trying to tell you, really? What was I always trying to tell you?”

“That you're-- that he’s a psychopath?”

Disappointingly, it didn't take the bait. “You were a disappointment. I expected better from you--”

“You expected a puppet,” I snapped. Realizing too late that I had let my voice raise. I cast a wary glance toward the doors, but heard nothing outside.

A cool smile curled his lips. “If you want to learn to control your temper, perhaps you can consider this practice, and control it. Difficult as I know that will be for you.”

I bit back an angry retort. I may want to put it in its place – as if I ever could – but it was right, yet again. I was angry. Now _was_ a perfect time to practice; holding my temper was only a problem when I didn't want to do it, after all, and I didn't want to lose myself to anger the way I had with Baghra or Sergei ever again. I didn't want to be cruel, cold. Frightening. Dangerous.

“What I expected from you at the time is not what I expect any longer, and I will tell you again that a puppet was not what I wanted. I've learned it's best to try not to have expectations at all where you are concerned. Hopes, perhaps. . . .” He paused, then sounded as if he were changing the subject. “What you refuse to understand is that you are more than everyone around you. It’s such a simple thing, but you fight it so hard that you harm yourself. You cling to your past, but that’s exactly what’s hurting you and making you a danger.”

I opened my mouth, an angry retort on my lips, but stopped myself and took a slow breath instead. It had said almost this exact thing to me two nights ago. I was a little curious where it would take it now, and if I followed, perhaps I could dismantle its argument, even get it to leave me alone for even one day.

“The Darkling wasn't stupid enough to think that murdering Mal, especially in such a horrifying way and right in front of me, would have done anything but cement him in my mind for the rest of my life and give me a reason to hate the Darkling that may never have cooled.

Its voice and face were unreadable. “You speak so casually of his death.”

“. . . It matters too much to be serious about it,” I said quietly. I had known for some time now that I'd outlive Mal by a laughable margin. I had yet to really let it sink in, though. I couldn’t.

The specter was silent a long moment before going on. “There’s a difference between being prudent, being patient, and being placid, to answer your question. There’s no reason you should exist. I waited and hoped for you, but I had to acknowledge the possibility that even in my long life, I would not find a Sun Summoner.” Something passed behind its eyes that I only caught because I knew that face so well. There was something it wasn't saying. “There’s no reason everything I needed should have lined up so perfectly with your discovery, either, but it did, piece after piece.

“You saved the life of perhaps the only person who could find the other amplifiers when I wanted to take it. You came into yourself, proved your power to me and everyone around us. I wanted to kill you. Part of me still does, but I never will, and I never would have. Not you.” His slate eyes were lit with the conviction of what he was saying, though his features were smooth and calm as ever. “I was furious with you. I still am. But I can't deny what you are.”

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, what I was, but he cut me off.

“You hold yourself back, and we both know you do it because of the boy. The reality is that his only usefulness is what he can give you, and nothing more. What he _owes_ you, and he does owe you. He owes you a penance for the life you kept secret. A tribute for time given to him that he had no right to expect and certainly did not deserve. It's why no matter how hard you try, you will never fit at his side, nor he at yours.”

He gave me just a moment to absorb that before going on, his tone conversational. “Has he begun pushing you out yet? Has he been growing angry or insecure, perhaps?”

I felt myself stiffen.

A look so knowing that it rose gooseflesh on my arms flowed into its eyes. “He will. Remind me how your reunion went the night of the fete. How pleasant was your time with him in the mountains afterwards? Did he rejoice when you claimed the power of Rusalye, celebrate and embrace you without fear? Are you still his little soldier now that you have a ranking position at court?” It looked away from my face almost as if bored. “He knows there is no world in which he can have you, and if he hasn’t truly realized it yet, he will. There’s no world in which he deserves you, no world in which he is your equal or your match, no world in which he is right for you. Like everyone else, everyone but me, he cannot help but see your otherness. And in his tiny, frail otkazat'sya mind, he _fears_ it.”

My hands balled into fists until my knuckles white. But it much as it was from anger, it was also from denial and fear, because every word it was saying was painfully familiar.

“He is the one broken cog in all of this,” it went on, sounding almost bored again, “and in your stubbornness you cling to the skin that no longer fits you. You did so well when you finally let him go all those months ago in your training. You’ll want to shout at me that it only happened because I lied, but the result was the same in the end. You let go of what was holding you back. You may have felt lonely at first, but you started to feel like you could exist without him. I saw it in you. And I saw you bloom because of it.

“The two of you don't belong together, Alina.” Its voice sounded sympathetic, almost pitying. Almost. But the words were just as poisonous as they were persistent. “You both see it, and you’re honest with yourself, you know that. You have outgrown that old shell, the girl you hid behind, the small soldier. Trying to hold on to the last shreds of that disguise is like trying to block a landslide by putting up a scrap of cloth. It creates tension and pain where there doesn’t need to be any, and no matter how much you fight, the end result will not change.

“It isn’t helping the rage you feel, and that will only get worse in step with the effort you put into fighting it. It will scream in your blood until it is the only thing you can hear and something is forced to break. And what do you think will happen when a power like you snaps?” It trailed off, letting me finish the sentence for myself. “It will be worse than killing one impudent boy.

“If I had to force you to see that by taking your tracker away, how could I not? Why would I deny you that truth when I know it better than anyone? I won't pretend I don't hate the boy. I would love nothing more than to throw his broken body from a cliff the moment he finds the firebird. But much as you want to think otherwise, it wasn’t hatred that pushed me to make you face his death. It wasn’t a snapped temper. It was the understanding, an understanding that no one else in this world can have like I can, that you needed to let go of what you were in order to become what you are meant to be.”

Keeping my voice meticulously calm despite the fury I felt underneath it, I said, “I hadn't heard of murder for the sake of altruism. I may have setbacks because of how young I am compared to the Darkling, but in his _old_ age, he's become arrogant.” It took great effort not to spit the words at it. “You can't rule over the ants if you don't remember what it's like to be one, and no matter how much he may believe to the contrary, you can't force people to accept peace, either.

“Conquer them. Compel them into line. Take away national borders. And from generation to generation, parents will teach their children, in secret if they have to, to hate and fear him, and the people he so professes to want to save will never know peace.

“He assumes his path is the only correct one. I tried to tell him different but he wouldn’t hear it. You can talk of trying to save me all you want, but what I have felt since I put the fetter on. . . .” I clenched my jaw. “That is _not_ who I want to be. That isn't what I want to become, I don’t care if it’s my destiny! The last time she was willing to even pretend to talk to me, Baghra told me that this hate and greed will only get worse. I don't want to be like _you._ I don't want to be cruel and cold and I don't want to believe I'm better than anyone just because I'm stubborn and old and because what I can do is rare.”

“Unheard of.”

“What?” I snapped, all pretense of holding my temper gone. Its eyes were still glancing at the life around me every once in a while, and under its measured, impassive gaze I saw intense study and sharp interest.

“How long has that been happening?” It asked, eyes on the glow moulded to my form.

“Since I put on the fetter,” I said, shrugging dismissively. “Don’t change the subject.”

It looked on a moment longer, then took a breath, almost as if rousing itself. Even that motion was graceful and languid. Its quartz eyes slid back to my face. “What you can do isn't rare, Alina. It's unheard of. You're as mythical as the stag, as Rusalye, or as the firebird ever were, and just as impossible.”

“Is that really the point, here?”

“It is precisely the point,” it said, and for the first time it sounded less than cool. “You insist on playing at being small. You cling to childhood because you fear anything else and then you complain about the consequences. As if your problems aren’t in your control to solve, as if the two weren't one in the same.”

There were so many things I wanted to say that for a moment I was overwhelmed by them. What ended up coming out was, “Oh. . . just fuck off.”

The bastard _chuckled._

“If what I ‘truly’ am is cruel and a murderer, then Saints help me if I'm _not_ afraid of it!”

I glared furiously. I saw in its eyes that it wanted to point out that I wasn't holding my temper. Wisely, it didn’t.

At least not directly. “To answer your original question, you keep from losing your temper by understanding that there are more important things than the immediate gratification of putting someone in their place. Your plans, for instance. Goals. When you get to be as old as I am, you understand that nothing is permanent - not a 'no' where you want a 'yes,' a betrayal where you expected loyalty. . . .” He didn't look at me when he said this, but he didn't need to. I heard the emphasis as clearly as if he had stopped to look me up and down. “There is always time. No setback is permanent.

“When you have forever, it's much more satisfying and, more to the point, effective to take your time putting someone in their place. They expect a anger. They expect a rise. Never hand your opponent what they’re expecting unless it’s to your advantage, and never let them think they can know you well enough to anticipate you.

“When they defy you, instead of reacting, assess the field. If you see that a victory isn’t within your grasp, don't fight it. Just like you turn a blow aside instead of absorbing it, use your retreat to lay a stone in the road of your next attempt. It doesn’t need to be more than a word, a glance.

“Learn to play the long game because in the end, you have infinitely more time than they ever will. Haste when it’s not needed is a mistake, and unlike everyone around you, you don’t necessarily need to be in a hurry to accomplish things. Disappointment and resistance will still affect you, but when you understand that no setback is permanent, it becomes easier to control yourself.

“It helps that after a point it becomes impossible for anyone to truly surprise you. There are only so many personalities in the world, and after enough lifetimes you learn them all. You learn the way backgrounds and experiences change a person, too. I know exactly who I'm talking to within a minute of being introduced to them.”

“Did I mention how well you have his arrogance down?”

He shrugged, blasé. “Arrogance or not, it doesn’t change the fact that what I’m saying is true. You’ll see for yourself, eventually. Even if you continue to fight it. I'm bored with life. I have been for centuries. I’ve done what was needed to forward my plans, but until you, nothing truly held my interest. You have kept me up nights, distracted me. . . . And I am a patient man, no matter what you think. All I have to do is wait; time will show you that I am right, that there is no other way of being for you and me. But thinking I can't be surprised any longer is a mistake I will not make again. Trusting is a mistake I will not make again.”

I narrowed my eyes at it. “Now I know that wasn't one he learned from me. And if you think otherwise, then you're even more willfully blind than he is. Which would be insulting to me personally, since I still think you're just some Grisha-fueled, glorified hallucination. A lot of bad things can be said about me, malen'kiy prizrak, but not at least admitting to myself when I've done something wrong isn't one of them.

“The Darkling was a lunatic. His idea of 'trust' amounted to counting on blind and fanatic loyalty without having done anything to earn it. He didn't rescue me from torture or slavery like he did other Grisha. He didn't save me from a life on the run. He stole me against my will, and in the middle of a plan to control everything about me, had the audacity to actually believe _I_ had betrayed _him_ when I didn't happily play along with his batshit crazy plans of mutiny. When I didn't smile and walk willingly into the chains. That kind of arrogance and entitlement could almost compete with the idiot King's, and that's saying something. So don't talk to me about trust while you look like that,” I finished, my voice glacial. I dropped the bread in my hand to the dinner plate and shoved it away, all appetite suddenly gone.

Without another word, I stood up and walked toward the bathing room. “And get the fuck out of my chambers,” I said as I went.

Mercifully, it was gone when I came back out.

 

* * * * *

 

Summer deepened, bringing waves of balmy heat to Os Alta. The only relief to be found was in the lake, or in the cold pools of the banya that lay in the dark shade of a birchwood grove beside the Little Palace. Whatever hostility the Ravkan court felt toward the Grisha, it didn’t stop them from beckoning Squallers and Tidemakers to the Grand Palace to summon breezes and fashion massive blocks of ice to cool the stuffy rooms. It was hardly a worthy use of Grisha skill and was utterly galling, but I knew the importance of keeping the King and Queen happy, especially after depriving them of their much-valued Fabrikators, who were now hard at work on David’s mysterious mirrored dishes.

Every morning, I met with my Grisha council—sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for hours—to discuss intelligence reports, troop movements, training progress, and what we were hearing from the northern and southern borders.

The Darkling's phantom was now appearing several times every week. Despite my anger over our last exchange, I couldn't shake a lingering feeling of ease that began to grow in me like a weed a little more every time I saw it. I hated it. But could also talk to it, and had begun to found the steadiness of its presence almost calming. Much as I often disagreed with what it had to say, I also couldn't deny that some of it made sense. Reminding myself that it was a piece of me, so technically I was just giving myself my own advice, didn't help as much as it should have.

Sometimes I woke at night to find it watching me, especially on days when it hadn't appeared. I made my displeasure about that known, as I did with its increasing tendency to pop up during meetings and giving unhelpful commentary during my conversations.

Nikolai still hoped to take the fight to the Darkling before he’d assembled the full strength of his shadow army, but unsurprisingly, Ravka’s network of spies and informants had been so far unable to discover his location. It was looking more and more likely that we’d have to make our stand in Os Alta. Our only advantage was that the Darkling couldn’t simply send the nichevo’ya against us; he had to stay close to his creatures, and that meant he would have to march on the capital with them. The big question was whether he would enter Ravka from Fjerda or the Shu Han.

Standing in the war room before the Grisha council, Nikolai gestured to one of the immense maps along the wall. “We took back most of this territory in the last campaign,” he said, pointing to Ravka’s northern border with Fjerda. “It’s dense forest, almost impossible to cross when the rivers aren’t frozen, and all the access roads have been blockaded.”

“Are there Grisha stationed there?” asked Zoya.

“No,” Nikolai said. “But there are lots of scouts based out of Ulensk. If he comes that way, we’ll have plenty of warning.”

“And he would have to deal with the Petrazoi,” said Ruslan. “Whether he goes over or around them, it will give us more time.” He’d become more open and willing to volunteer his thoughts over the last few weeks, at least during our meetings. Though David remained silent and fidgety, he actually seemed glad to have time away from the workrooms.

“I’m more concerned with the permafrost,” Nikolai said, running his hand along the stretch of border that ran above Tsibeya. “It’s heavily fortified. But that’s a lot of territory to cover.”

I nodded. They had felt massive when Mal and I had walked them. I caught myself looking around the room, seeking him out, even though I knew he’d gone on another hunt, this time with a group of Kerch marksmen and Ravkan diplomats. I always felt a little jolt when I realized he was gone.

“And if he comes from the south?” asked Zoya.

Nikolai signaled Fedyor, who rose and began to walk the Grisha through the weak points of the southern border. Because he’d been stationed at Sikursk, he knew the area well.

“It’s almost impossible to patrol all the mountain passes coming out of the Sikurzoi,” he reported grimly. “Shu raiding parties having been taking advantage of that fact for years. It would be easy enough for the Darkling to slip through.”

“Then it’s a straight march to Os Alta,” said Sergei.

“Past the military base at Poliznaya,” Nikolai noted. “That could work to our advantage. Either way, when he marches, we’ll be ready.”

“Ready?” Pavel snorted. “For an army of indestructible monsters?”

“They’re not indestructible,” Nikolai said, nodding to me. “And the Darkling isn’t either. I know. I shot him.”

Zoya’s eyes widened. “You shot him?”

“Yes,” he said. “Unfortunately, I didn’t do a very good job of it, but I’m sure I’ll improve with practice.” He surveyed the Grisha, looking into each worried face before he spoke again. “The Darkling is powerful, but so are we. He’s never faced the might of the First and Second Armies working in tandem, or the kinds of weapons I intend to supply. We face him. We flank him. We see which bullet gets lucky.”

While the Darkling’s shadow horde was focused on the Little Palace, he would be vulnerable. Small, heavily armed units of Grisha and soldiers would be stationed at two-mile intervals around the capital. Once the fighting began, they would close on the Darkling and unleash all the firepower that Nikolai could bring to bear.

In a way, it was what the Darkling had always feared. I remembered how he’d described the new weaponry being created beyond Ravka’s borders, and what he’d said to me, so long ago, beneath the caved-in roof of an old barn: _The age of Grisha power is coming to an end._

Ruslan's smooth voice cut into my thoughts. “What happens to the shadow soldiers when we kill the Darkling?”

I wanted to kiss him. There was no way to know for certain what would happen to the nichevo’ya if we managed to take the Darkling down. I assumed they would vanish, but they could just as easily go into a mad frenzy or worse. But he’d said it: _When_ we kill the Darkling. It was tentative, but it still sounded like hope. I may have told Baghra I didn't need it, or even want it, but to everyone else in the First and Second armies, especially the Grisha, it was vital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She called him "little ghost" in Russian.
> 
> A few things:  
> \- My computer is out of commission and using Gdocs on my phone is the most infuriating thing I have done in recent memory. It was all I could do to get this chapter up, and I'm not happy with it.  
> \- The Beta and I have realised how insanely long my chapters have gotten, so the chapters in this fic will no longer line up with the chapters in the books. That will get you updates faster though.  
> \- I am burned the shit out on this project. I am taking a break. Not the usual fic author thing where "break" means "ghosting on my fic." This project will be completed. Just, if I keep going like I am, it's gon' turn to garbage. Nobody wants that.  
> \- <3


	19. Let's Be Honest, She Had It Coming

We focused the majority of our efforts on Os Alta’s defense. The city had an ancient system of warning bells to alert the palace when an enemy was in sight. With his father’s permission, Nikolai had installed heavy guns like those on the Hummingbird above the city and palace walls. Despite Grisha carping, I’d had several placed on the roof of the Little Palace. They likely wouldn’t stop the nichevo’ya, but I was generally in favor of anything that would slow them down.

Tentatively, the Corporalki and Etherialki had begun to open up to the value of the Fabrikators. With help from the Inferni, the Materialki were trying to create grenatki that might produce a powerful enough flash of light to stall or stun the shadow soldiers. The problem was doing it without using blasting powders that would level everyone and everything around them. I sometimes worried that they might blow up the entire Little Palace and do the Darkling’s work for him, but I didn't feel comfortable sending them to their much less guarded workshop outside the city, the one that was intended for this sort of dangerous experimentation. More than once, I saw Grisha in the dining hall with burnt cuffs or singed brows. I encouraged them to try the more dangerous work by the lakeside with Tidemakers on hand in case of emergency.

Nikolai was intrigued enough by the project that he insisted on getting involved in the design. The Fabrikators tried to ignore him, then pretended to indulge him, but they quickly learned that Nikolai was more than a bored prince who wanted to dabble. Not only did he understand David’s ideas, but he’d worked long enough with the rogue Grisha that he slipped easily into the language of the Small Science. Soon, they seemed to forget his rank and his otkazat’sya status, and he could often be found hunched over a table in the Materialki workshops. It brought a smile to my lips every time I saw it. If the prince could get along with Grisha and vice versa, perhaps there was hope for the rest of the world. For the first time, I started to think that Nikolai's idea of taking a Grisha bride might actually be a good one. So long as it wasn’t me. Or Zoya. I shuddered at the very thought.

I was disturbed by the experiments taking place behind the red-lacquered doors of the Corporalki anatomy rooms, where they were collaborating with the Fabrikators to try to fuse Grisha steel with human bone. The idea was to make it possible for a soldier to withstand nichevo’ya attack, but the process was excruciating and imperfect, and often, the metal was simply rejected by the subject’s body. The Healers did what they could, but the ragged screams of First Army volunteers could sometimes be heard echoing through the halls of the Little Palace. I couldn't help but wonder if Genya would have had better luck, since she was neither Fabrikator nor Corporalki, and both at the same time. Despite protests that it would hinder the work, I began insisting that volunteers be unconscious during experimentation.

On rare days, I got in a private lesson with Botkin. Largely, though, afternoons were taken up by endless meetings at the Grand Palace. The Sun Summoner’s power was a valuable bartering chip in Ravka’s attempts to forge alliances with other countries, and I was frequently asked to put in appearances at diplomatic gatherings to demonstrate my power and prove that I was, in fact, alive and real. For my part, I usually just sat there trying to look regal, ignoring how much I wanted to beat sense into the people present, going over notes and plans in my head, and glowing gently for all to see.

The Queen hosted teas and dinners where my presence was “requested,” and against my better judgement I let Nikolai talk me into attending for the sake of keeping my position at court strong. Once.

I was paraded out to perform, asked condescending questions about my past and the Darkling and my sudden rise to power at court. After a short while, I didn’t have to concentrate to give them a show any longer - I was glowing like a lantern and trying to decide what the most fun way of blinding them or immolating their appalling frilled dresses or sending their horrible snuffly-nosed dogs running. Nikolai dropped by to dole out compliments, flirt shamelessly, and hover protectively by my chair like a doting suitor. He, at least, recognized the murder in my eyes and the physical pain that was my smile, and before long had me distracted either by laughing or by wanting to hit him.

The next time he asked me to indulge his mother and her friends, I told him I was legitimately concerned that the angry halo around me would set something on fire.

Then there were the tedious “strategy sessions” hosted by the King’s advisors and commanders. The King himself rarely attended - he preferred to spend his days hobbling after serving maids and sleeping in the sun like an old tomcat. In his absence, his counselors talked in endless circles. They argued that we should make peace with the Darkling or that we should go to war with the Darkling. They argued for allying with the Shu, then for partnering with Fjerda. They argued every line of every budget, from quantities of ammunition to what the troops ate for breakfast. And the very worst part was at the end of it all, it was rare that anything got done or decided.

Then when Vasily learned that Nikolai and I were attending the meetings, he put aside many years’ tradition of ignoring his duties as the Lantsov heir and insisted on being present. To my surprise, Nikolai welcomed him enthusiastically.

“What a relief,” he said. “Please tell me you can make sense of these.” He shoved a towering stack of ledgers across the table.

“What is this?” Vasily asked.

“A proposal for repairs to an aqueduct outside of Chernitsyn.”

“All this for an aqueduct?”

“Oh, no,” Nikolai laughed. “But don't worry, I’ll have the rest delivered to your room.”

“There’s more? Can’t one of the ministers—”

“You saw what happened when our father let others take over the business of ruling Ravka. We must remain vigilant.”

Warily, Vasily lifted the topmost paper from the pile as if he were picking up a soiled rag. It took everything in me not to burst out laughing. I had to hide my face behind my hand and pretend to have a coughing fit as it was.

“Vasily thinks he can lead as our father did,” Nikolai confided to me later that afternoon, “throwing banquets, giving the occasional speech. I’m going to make sure he knows just what it means to rule without the Darkling or the Apparat there to take the reins.”

It seemed like a good enough plan, but before long, I was cursing both princes beneath my breath. Vasily’s presence ensured that meetings ran twice as long and that, impossibly, even less got done. He postured and preened, weighed in on every issue, held forth at length on patriotism, strategy, and the finer points of diplomacy. More than once I thought my teeth might crack under the force of being so tightly clamped.

“I’ve never met a man who can say so much without saying anything at all,” I fumed as Nikolai walked me back to the Little Palace after a particularly wretched session. “There’s got to be something you can do.”

“Like what?”

“Get one of his prize ponies to kick him in the head. Poison one of the several bottles of wine he guzzles every day.”

“I’m sure they’re frequently tempted,” Nikolai said. “Vasily’s lazy and vain, and he likes to take shortcuts, but there’s no easy way to govern a country. Trust me, he’ll tire of it all soon enough.”

“Define ‘soon enough,’ Nikolai. Because I may die of boredom before he quits, and then where will you be?”

Nikolai laughed. “Next time, bring a flask. Every time he changes his mind, take a sip.”

I snorted. “I’d be passed out on the floor before an hour was up! Although alcohol poisoning would be a much better way to go than boredom.”

 

* * * * *

 

With Nikolai's help, I brought in armaments experts from Poliznaya to help familiarize the Grisha with modern weaponry and give them training in firearms. Though the sessions had started out tensely, they seemed to be going more smoothly now, and we hoped that a few friendships might be forming between the First and Second Armies. The units of Grisha and soldiers who had been assembled to hunt down the Darkling when he approached Os Alta made the fastest progress. They returned from training missions full of private jokes and new camaraderie. They even took to calling each other nolniki, zeroes, because they were no longer strictly First or Second Army.

I’d been worried about how Botkin might respond to all the changes. But the man seemed to have an appreciation of and gift for killing, no matter the method, and he delighted in any excuse to spend time talking weaponry with Tolya and Tamar. He even started working with a small group of First Army soldiers, and I found out Mal had begun spending a good deal of his free time there.

Because the Shu had a bad habit of taking a scalpel to their Grisha, few survived to make it into the ranks of the Second Army. Botkin loved being able to speak in his native tongue with the twins, but he also loved their ferocity. They didn’t rely only on their Corporalki abilities the way Grisha raised at the Little Palace tended to. Instead, Heartrending was just one more weapon at their disposal.

“Dangerous boy. Dangerous girl,” Botkin commented, watching the twins spar with a group of Corporalki one morning while a clutch of nervous Summoners waited their turn. Marie and Sergei were there, Nadia trailing behind them as always.

“She’f worf than he if,” complained Sergei. Tamar had split his lip open, and he was having trouble talking. “I feel forry for her hufband.”

“Will not marry,” said Botkin as Tamar threw a hapless Inferni to the ground.

“What do you mean?” I asked, surprised.

“Not her. Not brother either,” said the mercenary. “They are like Botkin. Born for battle. Made for war.”

Three Corporalki hurled themselves at Tolya. In moments, they were all moaning on the floor. I thought of what Tolya had said in the library, that he wasn’t born to serve the Darkling. Like so many Shu, he’d taken the path of the soldier for hire, traveling the world as a mercenary and a privateer. But he’d ended up at the Little Palace anyway. How long would he and his sister stay?

“I like her,” said Nadia, looking wistfully at Tamar. “She’s fearless.”

Botkin laughed. “Fearless is other word for stupid.”

“I wouldn’t fay that to her fafe,” grumbled Sergei as Marie dabbed his lip with a damp cloth.

I found myself starting to smile and turned aside. I hadn’t forgotten the welcome the three of them had given me when I had returned to the Little Palace. They hadn’t been the ones to call me a whore or try to throw me out, but they certainly hadn’t spoken up to defend me after so many months' pretense of being my friends, and so the idea of pretending closeness now was just a little too much. Besides, I had begun to understand that it was better to keep at least a small distance between us now that I was essentially ruling all of them. If I was being honest with myself, it did nothing but take pressure off me.

 _Genya wouldn’t care,_ I thought. She had known me. She’d laughed with me and confided in me when I had worn the Darkling's color, and no new kefta or title would have kept her from telling me exactly what she thought or slipping her arm through mine to share a bit of gossip. She'd lied to me and betrayed me. And I still missed her.

As if in answer to my thoughts, I felt a tug on my sleeve, and a small, nervous voice said, “Moi soverenyi?”

Nadia stood shifting from foot to foot. “I hoped. . . .”

“What is it?”

She turned to a murky corner of the stables and gestured to a young boy in Etherealki blue whom I’d never seen before. A few Grisha had begun to trickle in after we’d sent out the pardon, but this boy looked too young to have served in the field. He approached nervously, fingers twisting in his kefta. He chanced a brief look at me, and the moment I saw it something in my blood iced over. He had the same look in his eyes I had seen in every other Grisha's any time they had approached the Darkling. No matter what expression had been on their face, the look behind their eyes had always been the same: hesitance and intimidation.

“This is Adrik,” Nadia said, placing her arm around him. “My brother.” The resemblance was there, though you had to look for it. “We heard that you plan to evacuate the school.”

“Yes.” My voice was quiet in an effort to keep it steady. “I do.” I was sending the students to the one place I knew of with dormitories and space enough to house them, a place far from the fighting: Keramzin. Botkin and one of the teachers would go with them, too – I wanted to send more, but we couldn't spare the bodies. I hated to lose such a capable soldier in Botkin, but this way the younger Grisha would still be able to learn from him—and he’d be able to keep an eye on them. Since Baghra wouldn’t see me, I’d sent a servant to her with the same request. She’d made no reply. Despite my best attempts to ignore her slights, the repeated rejections still stung. I wondered what my phantom might have to say about it, but quickly brushed the thought away.

“You’re a student?” I asked Adrik. He nodded once, and I noted the determined thrust to his chin.

“Adrik was wondering. . .we were wondering if—”

“I want to stay,” he said fiercely.

My brows lifted. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to fight.”

“He would have graduated this year,” put in Nadia.

I studied him carefully. He was a teenager, not much younger than some of the Grisha sent into the field before the Darkling had fled, and his face was set, but he was all bony angles and rumpled hair.

“. . .Go with the others to Keramzin, Adrik,” I said finally. “In a year, if you still want to join us, you can.” _If we’re still alive._

“I’m good,” he protested. “I’m a Squaller, and I’m as strong as Nadia, even without an amplifier.”

I looked at Nadia. “Is that true?”

She nodded quickly. “It is, moi soverenyi.”

I considered, but shook my head. “It’s too dangerous—”

“This is my home. I’m not leaving,” he said in a small but fierce voice.

“Adrik!” Nadia chastised.

“It’s alright,” I said, though I arched a brow at the boy. He seemed almost feverish. His hands were balled into fists. I looked at Nadia. “You’re sure you want him to stay?”

“I—” began Adrik.

“I’m talking to your sister,” I said, voice brooking no argument. “If you fall, she’s the one who will have to bury you and mourn you.” Nadia paled slightly at that, but Adrik didn’t flinch. I had to admit he had mettle.

Nadia worried the inside of her lip, glancing from me to Adrik.

“If you’re afraid to disappoint him, think what it will be like to put him in the ground,” I said. I knew I was being harsh, but I wanted them both to understand what they were asking, and what it could mean.

She hesitated, then straightened her shoulders. “Let him fight,” she said. “I say he stays. If you send him away, he’ll just be back at the gates a week from now,” she added, some mix between wry and weary and fond.

I sighed and felt the corners of my lips twitch despite my attempt to hide my amusement. I liked his stubbornness. I turned my attention back to Adrik, who was already grinning. “Not a word to the other students,” I said firmly. “I don’t want them getting ideas.” I jabbed a finger at Nadia. “And he’s your responsibility.”

“Thank you, moi soverenyi,” said Adrik, bowing so low I thought he might tip over.

I took him in another moment before sending them on their way. “Get him back to his classes,” I said with a resigned, breathy chuckle.

I watched them walk up the hill toward the lake, then made my way to one of the smaller training rooms, where I found Mal sparring with Pavel. Mal had been at the Little Palace less and less lately. The invitations had started arriving the afternoon he returned from Balakirev—hunts, house parties, trout fishing, card games. Every nobleman and officer seemed to want Mal at his next event. Between his personality and the stories he now had to tell, and his reputation now that his name was more or less cleared, if only unofficially, I wasn't surprised.

Sometimes he was just gone for an afternoon, sometimes for a few days. We had spent time apart in the army, but more than that It reminded me of being back at Keramzin, when I would watch him ride away and then wait each day at the kitchen window for him to return. But if I was honest with myself, the days when he was gone were almost easier, somehow. When he was at the Little Palace, I felt unhappy and almost guilty over not being able to spend more time with him, and my temper flared every time I saw the other Grisha ignore him or talk down to him like a servant when they thought I wouldn’t find out. As much as I missed him, as much as I wanted him with me, I encouraged him to go. With everything that was happening, it seemed easier on the both of us to have Mal in his sphere and me in mine.

 _It’s better this way,_ I told myself. _Just for now._ Before he’d left to find me, Mal had had a good life and a bright future, surrounded by friends and admirers. He didn’t belong standing guard in doorways or lurking at the edges of rooms or playing the role of dutiful shadow as I went from one meeting to the next. Mal was not a background piece, not a person you shut out. It felt as wrong as me not using my power.

 _No matter how hard you try, you will never fit at his side, nor he at yours._ I suppressed a sick shiver at the memory of the words.

“I could watch him all day,” said an appreciative voice behind me. I stiffened. Zoya was standing there.

“You don’t mind the stink of Keramzin anymore?” I asked coolly, remembering the vicious words she had once spoken to me.

“I find the lower classes have a certain rough appeal. You will let me know when you’re through with him, won’t you?”

“. . .Excuse me?” I said, soft light shimmering like heat and my voice dangerously quiet.

“Oh, did I misunderstand? You two seem so. . . close. But I’m sure you’re setting your sights higher these days.”

I turned on her. “I'd be very, very careful if I were you, Zoya. Since you've been kind enough to approach, however, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. What are you doing here?”

“I came for a training session.”

I smiled coldly. “You know that's not what I mean. Why are you at the Little Palace?”

“I’m a soldier of the Second Army. This is where I belong.”

I folded my arms. It was long past time Zoya and I had something out. “Coy isn't something you'll find I tolerate well. I need to spell it out for you? Fine. You doted on the Darkling. You wanted to be his pet, you would have done anything for it, anything just to get him to glance at you. Me, you hated, and you never missed an opportunity to let me know it. So I will ask again: _why are you here?”_

“What choice do I have?”

I shrugged a shoulder coolly. “You were one of his favorites before I came along. Before you lost your temper like a child in the training rooms. I’m sure he's eager for loyal soldiers these days.”

“Are you ordering me to leave?” She was striving for her usual haughty tone, but I could tell she was scared. It gave me a sharp stab of vindictive pleasure.

“I want to know why you’re so determined to stay.”

“Because I don’t want to live in darkness,” she said. “Because you’re our best chance.”

I snorted. “Now I know you hate me, but you can't possibly believe I'm that stupid. Try again, and I'd suggest not wasting my time with this one.”

She flushed. “Am I supposed to beg?”

I dropped all pretense of civility and my face and voice turned cold. The more flustered she became, the more I was finding something cool and calm and predatory coming to the fore in myself, and Saints help me, I didn't hate it. “If I want you on your knees, Zoya, you'll know it. Right now, however, what I want the truth, or you can leave this minute with nothing but the clothes on your back. You are vain. You are selfish. You are ambitious. You would have done anything for the Darkling’s attention. What is it that supposedly happened to magically change that?”

“What changed it?” she choked out. Her lips thinned, and her fists clenched at her sides. “I had an aunt who lived in Novokribirsk. A niece,” she said fiercely. I found I enjoyed her anger as much as her discomfort. “The Darkling could have told me what he meant to do. If I could have warned them—” Her voice broke, and I watched her pain with cold satisfaction even as I knew I was finally getting an honest answer. I felt a twinge of guilt and my reaction, but not enough to make me push it away. Rather than making me angry, her flippant attitude suddenly had me amused, as if I was watching a child throw a tantrum over not getting extra dessert.

Baghra’s voice echoed in my ears: _You’re taking to power well. . . . As it grows, it will hunger for more._

The phantom’s rang out at the same time: _Be honest with yourself. Stop fighting what you are. You have a long, long life ahead of you, Alina, and your power is only going to grow. If you can't come to terms with what you are, the world will not survive you._

Had it been giving me advice? Or permission? Or was it trying to steer me down a path I might not want to walk?

I felt a little ashamed, but for the first time, something in me argued with the feeling. Why _should_ I feel ashamed? Zoya was a selfish child who had never shown me an ounce of compassion or respect. I appreciated that she had at least been honest about her feelings and opinions, but that didn't change how ugly they were. She hated me. Why should I pretend I didn’t feel the same?

Still, I wasn't stupid; I could hate her, but that didn't mean I had to be as petty and foolish about it as she was. The Darkling had only favored the most valuable and powerful among the Grisha, and Zoya had been a favorite. _Use what's in front of you._ So long as I knew she would follow orders, she would be an asset. But would she follow orders? How far could I trust her?

She blinked her tears back and glared at me. “I still don’t like you, Starkov. I never will. You’re common and clumsy,” I felt one corner of my lips twitch invisibly, “and I don’t know why you were born with such power. But you’re the Sun Summoner, and if you can keep Ravka free, then I’ll fight for you.”

The wound on my shoulder itched and tugged, and I gave it an involuntary twitch.

I watched her, considering, and with utterly no desire to hurry. I noted the two bright spots of color that flamed high on her cheeks, the careful way she held herself tall, the slight trembling of her lip, the sheen in her eyes she couldn't seem to banish.

“Well?” she said, and I could see how much it cost her to ask. “Are you sending me away?”

I waited a moment longer, just so it was clear that it was my right to do so. “I never said I was. But you should watch yourself, Zoya. And don’t test me again.” _Don't so much as look in Mal's direction,_ I wanted to say.

“Is everything alright?” Mal asked. We hadn’t even noticed that he’d left off sparring.

In an instant, Zoya’s uncertainty was gone. She gave him a dazzling smile, but the slight sheen in her eyes was still there. “I hear you’re quite the marvel with a bow and arrow. I thought you might offer me a lesson.”

“You'll find the other trainers perfectly adequate, Zoya,” I said, a glacial edge to my voice under its calm impassivity.

Mal glanced from the Squaller back to me. My face was almost blank.

“Maybe later,” he said.

She opened her mouth to reply, but one glance at me had her closing it in a hurry. She nodded her head in a crisp motion, and swept away in a soft rustle of silk. My eyes followed her retreating form.

“What was that about?” he asked quietly as we began the walk up the hill to the Little Palace.

“I don't like her,” I said coolly. “And I don't trust her.”

For a long minute he said nothing. “Alina,” he began uneasily, “listen. . . what happened in Kribirsk—”

I whirled on him. “Don't you dare,” I warned. If no one said it, I could at least go on pretending that nothing had happened. Besides, that was hardly the point. I straightened myself and took a deep breath. “And for Saint's sake, give me a little more credit. She was an annoying twit in Kribursk, but she did plenty during my time here to earn my dislike. She practically planted and tended an entire garden of it with her bare hands. Zoya was one of the Darkling’s favorites, and she hated me from the moment we met.”

“She was probably jealous of you.”

I snorted. “So? You don't break someone's ribs because you're jealous. Unless you're also psychotic. The lies and insults and petty gossip I could understand, but there's a line, and I'm pretty sure broken bones and concussions are far to the wrong side of it.” My mind flashed back to how close I had come to murdering Sergei in a fit of pique, but I shoved it aside. My problem was not so simple as a bad attitude. A little defensively, I added, “You haven't seen a woman with a temper until you've seen that bitch snap over not getting her way.”

“Wait, she did what?”

“Oh,” I said with a harsh laugh, “did she not mention that about herself while she was batting her eyelashes at you by the Fold?” I laughed darkly, then immediately felt my cheeks heat. I was acting like a child. “No,” I hurried to say. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just. . . I don’t know how to do this.” I said tiredly, waving my hand between us. “I’ve never been with anyone, not really, and you. . . .” I shook my head, dismissing the topic in favor of another. “I never told you--” I sighed. “It wasn't. . . fun for me here, Mal,” I said, oddly uncomfortable at the admission. Why did it make me feel exposed? “There were pieces now and again, like when I learned I had power locked away inside myself and broke through the walls I'd built to hold it back. But other than that. . . I know the clothes are good, the food is incredible, I got my own room, we're spoiled rotten, but I would never have called it fun, and I would have traded everything in a heartbeat for one more afternoon with you.”

I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. “I thought you'd abandoned me. The only people close to my age were the Darkling's guards, who were about as social as carvings; I had no peers because I was dressed in black but I was still a world away from the Darkling, who I never saw anyway. And what a joke it was to try and have an actual conversation with him when I did. Everything was new; it was by sheer luck that I thought of a reason for turning down the King that wouldn't have me thrown into irons, my best friend who, as it turned out, was also lying to me wasn't so lucky, and I. . . I just. . . .” I heaved a deep breath, suddenly weary. “I did my best, I lost everything, I lost you, I was alone, and every saintsforsaken piece of it was for nothing, because I couldn’t do the one thing I was supposed to no matter how hard I worked.”

Mal looked like he was trying not to appear stricken. I had never confirmed his and Nikolai's suspicion about the King, the suspicion I was stupid enough to have given them in the first place, and I had never given him reason to think that my time at the Little Palaces had been any less than what we had assumed it would be from the outside. Soft and luxurious.

“You never told me. About your power.” _About any of it,_ he didn't have to say.

I had so many secrets from Mal these days, this felt like hundreds of pounds being lifted from my chest. “When the examiners came to Keramzin and brought my power out, showed it to me. . . do you remember how I was sick for days afterwards?”

He nodded. I saw his hand twitch, and it was hard not to reach out and take it. “It was from the effort of shoving the power down when that woman called it. And I never realized, but afterwards, I was so afraid to lose you, to be taken away. . . I lived and breathed one law: 'don't get caught.' So I locked away some of my power without realizing it. Just enough to never really shine the way I could, to never quite wake up all the way. That's why I looked better that night you saw me at the fete.”

Mal nodded - he knew how using or neglecting my power affected my health and appearance.

“It was after I'd snuck into town, thinking maybe my letters just weren't getting sent properly. When I still didn't hear from you after that. . . .” I rubbed my arms against a sudden chill. “I thought it was all the confirmation I needed. No more Alina tagging along, no more Alina to watch out for, to protect, to humor, no more secret to keep. . . . My teacher pushed me hard that day. She knew something was off, and she was just. . . relentless. She insulted me and picked at me until I broke, until I snapped to pieces. And out of the cracks came everything I had never known I was shoving down.”

“I--” He glanced around. “Saints, Alina.”

Understanding his look, I waited until no heads were turned our way and cast us out of sight. Immediately Mal took me into his arms. “You were never a burden,” he said quietly but emphatically against my hair. “You were never someone who just tagged along. I know we didn’t talk for a long time sometimes, but you were the only person who ever really mattered. I just didn't understand why until I lost you.

“I didn't get a single letter. Sometimes it was all I could do not to steal a horse and ride straight to the gates of this place. But I knew that if I did, I would never get through. I would get thrown into a cell or hanged and there was no surer way to make certain I'd never see you again. I wrote you, too, you know. Not much - I didn't know where to send anything, but I think sometimes I just needed to get out some of what I was holding in, even if you’d never see it.

“I was such an ass that night at the fete.” He laughed bitterly but quietly, mindful that we weren't alone. “I didn't understand how I felt-- I didn't even realize I was jealous. I thought I'd spent all that time worrying about you, losing sleep, not eating, and then I saw you and you looked. . . up on that stage, you looked like you belonged. So what was my worry for if you didn't even care? If you were _happy,_ if you were better than you ever had been with me around. If all that was true, then why did _I_ still care? I was a mess inside, and I didn't have the first idea how to start sorting it out, so. . . I just got angry. I was a shit,” he finished with a dark chuckle.

I huffed a laugh. “I oscillated between holding back tears, begging you to stay, and picking up the nearest heavy object and hitting you with it. You came and thought you saw me happy after all that worry? I saw you after all _my_ worry, and you could hardly stand to look at me. You couldn't get away from me fast enough. Not the best of reunions. But then. . . we’d had help. We just didn't know it at the time.”

I felt Mal tense with anger, and I couldn't help the answering swell in me. The Darkling was nothing if not manipulative and selfish. Hurting me just got him one step closer to his goals, and Mal? Mal hadn’t even been worth considering.

I took a deep breath, then pulled back and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his lips.

“I don't want to think about Zoya any more than I have to, and I certainly don't want to think about her within ten miles of you or what I refuse to acknowledge _might_ have happened in Kribursk.” I was careful to look away from his face so I didn't have to see the admission that part of me knew would be there. “All the personal things aside, the fact is that I just don't know where her real allegiance lies, and I'm not sure I can. She would have done anything just to get the Darkling to glance her way.” I rubbed the back of my neck where the muscles had started to bunch, fingers inadvertently brushing the collar. “I can’t be sure of anyone but you, not really. Not the Grisha. Not the servants. Not the people in the palace. Any of them could be working for him.”

Mal seized hold of my hand. “Gritzki’s throwing a fortune-telling party in the upper town two days from now. Come with me.”

“Gritzki?”

“Yeah, his father is Stepan Gritzki, the pickle king. New money,” Mal said in a very good imitation of a smug noble. “But his family has a palace down by the canal.”

I felt something suspiciously light, but had to suppress it immediately. “I can’t,” I said after a brief hesitation, thinking of the meetings, David’s mirrored dishes, the evacuation of the school. It felt wrong to take a night off and go to a party when we could be at war at any moment, and our survival depended so much on me doing work that needed to be done.

“You can,” said Mal. “Just for an hour or two. Whatever you have to do will wait that long, and Alina, no one wants to see you burned out and tired. You’ll be more of a danger to everyone around you than the Darkling.”

He said it with a laugh, but I couldn’t help the feeling of my stomach dropping like a stone. Still, he had a point, and it was so tempting, the idea of stealing a few moments with Mal away from the pressures of the Little Palace.

He must have sensed that I was wavering. “We’ll dress you up as one of the performers,” he said. “No one will even know the Sun Summoner is there.”

I chewed on my bottom lip. A party, late in the evening, after the day’s work was done. I’d miss one night of futile searching through the library. Was there really any harm in that?

“All right,” I said, a smile spreading over my lips. “Let’s go.”

His face broke into a grin that left me breathless. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to the idea that a smile like that was really just for me.

“Tolya and Tamar won’t like it,” he warned.

“They’re my guards,” I said with a chuckle. “They don't have to like it, they just have to do what I tell them.” I grinned.

Mal snapped to attention and swept me an elaborate bow. “Da, moi soverenyi. We live to serve.”

I rolled my eyes and made a halfhearted disgusted sound, but as I hurried to the Materialki workrooms, I felt lighter than I had in weeks.

 

* * * * *

 

My progress check with David and his people went quickly, but on my way out of the room I was stopped by a smooth, rich voice.

“Soverenyi?”

I turned to see Ruslan.

“May I speak to you in private?”

Curious, I agreed and motioned for him to follow me. When we reached my chambers, I asked the twins to wait outside and leaned against the large dining table to one side of the room.

Ruslan twined his fingers together gracefully, and I had the odd and aggravating thought of what inhumanly perfect children he and Zoya would have.

“When you were living here last year, you always seemed to want people to be honest with you. Even now in your position you encourage us to speak up.”

I nodded.

He paused for a moment, looking at a large painting on the wall to my right.

“I overheard some of your conversation with Zoya Nazyalenski this afternoon.”

I stiffened imperceptibly, but only waited for him to get to what he had to say.

“I was standing near enough to watch the exchange, actually. I hope you'll forgive me – normally I wouldn't go out of my way to pay attention to a conversation I’m not involved in, but something stopped me from turning away, and that's what I wanted to speak with you about.”

He looked at me, seemed to be waiting for me to say something. I still had yet to figure out if he was impossibly difficult to read, or really just as calm and unflappable as he always seemed. “Go on,” I urged.

He looked down as if collecting his thoughts, and didn't go on until his eyes met mine again. “You reminded me of someone. So much that for a moment I forgot who I was listening to, and whose face I was seeing. I don't actually remember much of what was said because the resemblance was so uncanny. I was very struck by it.”

A cold pit began to open in my stomach. “Who did I remind you of?” I asked slowly, afraid in my bones that I already knew.

“The Darkling, soverenyi.”

Ruslan paused, but this time his gaze did not waver, even as I felt as if my limbs were icing over. “He was a good leader. I always knew that. A lonely man, I assumed, but good at what he did. I also knew that he was someone not to cross – I would have known that even without his reputation. No one who is that commanding and that in control of themselves is someone to be crossed.” He sounded almost thoughtful as he went on. “His calm had more personality than most people who wear what they think on their sleeves. But it was obvious that he was always watching, paying attention. And there was a coldness to him.

“The way you were with Zoya today. . . it was the way I’ve seen him be with someone whose future was, shall we say, uncertain after speaking to him. With someone who has gravely displeased him. It didn’t happen often. But the calm on your face today. . . it had more personality than you do when you're warm and open.”

He paused again, either to let the words sink in or to give me time to say something, I didn't know. His steady eyes stayed on mine. I felt as if I were being scolded by someone who knew much more about life than I possibly could. I thought my bones had been replaced with metal, weighed down and heavy. I had to remember to breathe.

“I don't know if it's a bad thing. The Darkling’s gravitas was undeniable, and he put it to good use. I think it's a formidable skill for any leader to have. I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds in telling you this. I simply had the feeling that it was something you would want to know. Even if it meant I would be telling you something you might not like to hear.”

This time when he stopped speaking, he stayed quiet. I tried to think of anything to say. Memories of my glimpses of the Darkling at the Little Palace passed through my mind, as did rumors from before I’d met him about how unforgiving he was and our short conversations. I remembered my reasoning at the time for the way I had behaved with Zoya, my satisfaction at her pain, the sense of rightness I'd felt at not playing nice when I hadn't wanted to, and at not chastising myself for it. The phantom's face came to mind, too.

“Thank you, Ruslan,” I eventually said, impressed at how calm I sounded. But given what he’d just said about the personality of my calm, he’d see right through it. “You were right, it is the sort of thing I want to hear, and I’m glad for your honesty. But keep it between us, f you would.”

“Of course, moi soverenyi,” he said with a respectful bow of his head.

I studied his smooth face another long moment before I took a breath and asked, “Was there anything else?”

“No, soverenyi.”

I nodded in acknowledgment. He gave another graceful display of respect and left the room.

I told Tamar and Tolya that I wanted time to myself, and in the quiet, I wondered what exactly I was supposed to do with what he had just told me. I knew I should be horrified. But I wasn't. And that was what worried me in the end.

Seeming like him didn't mean I _was_ him, right? But that, coupled with the feeling of satisfaction I’d had at finally flexing my superiority over Zoya, and simply feeling that that superiority existed in the first place was. . . troubling.

And all I heard was the phantom’s voice in my head telling me that I _was_ superior, and that trying to fight it would get people killed. But if I went on like I was, I would be the one killing them.

What was I supposed to do? Exactly what door was opening?

I made my way to my bedchamber, only half present. When I got inside and closed the doors, I leaned back against them, eyes staring fixedly at nothing. Inside, all I could see was the man who was haunting me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not back. Not really. It's just that I have this illness where I can't stop working on things. I might already be working on the next two chapters, in fact.
> 
> It is not the worst illness.


	20. Saints

The Gritski mansion was in the canal district, considered the least fashionable part of the upper town because of its proximity to the bridge and the rabble across it. It was a lavish little building, bordered by a war memorial on one side and the gardens of the Convent of Sankta Lizabeta on the other.

Mal had managed to secure a borrowed coach for the evening, and we were tucked inside its narrow confines with a very cranky Tamar. She and Tolya had protested long and loudly about the party, but I’d made it clear that I wasn’t going to budge. I also swore them to secrecy; I didn’t want word of my little excursion beyond the palace gates to reach Nikolai.

We were all dressed in the style of Suli fortune-tellers, vibrant orange silk cloaks and red lacquered masks carved to resemble jackals. Tolya had remained behind - even covered head to toe, his size would draw too much attention.

Mal squeezed my hand, and I felt a surge of giddy excitement. My cloak was uncomfortably warm, and my face was already starting to itch beneath the mask, but I didn’t care. I felt like we were back at Keramzin, casting off our chores and braving the threat of the switch just to sneak away to our meadow. We would lie in the cool grass and listen to the hum of the insects, watching the clouds break apart overhead. That kind of peace seemed so far away now, but we were still claiming time for ourselves.

The street leading to the pickle king’s mansion was clogged with carriages. We turned onto an alley near the convent so that we’d be better able to mix in with the performers at the servants’ entrance.

Tamar carefully shifted her cloak as we descended from the coach. She and Mal were both carrying hidden pistols, and I knew that beneath all the orange silk, she had her twin axes strapped to each thigh.

“What if someone actually wants their fortune told?” I asked, tightening the laces of my mask and pulling my hood up, careful that it covered the amplifier.

“Just feed him the usual drivel,” said Mal, grinning. “Beautiful lover, unexpected wealth. Beware of the number eight and foreigners with small feet.”

The servants’ entrance led past a steam-filled kitchen and into the house’s back rooms. But as soon as we stepped inside, a man dressed in what must have been the Gritzki livery seized my arm.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he said, giving me a shake. I saw Tamar’s hand go to her hip.

“I—”

“You three should already be circulating.” He shoved us toward the main rooms of the house. “Don’t spend too long with any single guest. And don’t let me catch you drinking!”

I nodded and tried to get my heart to stop hammering as we hurried into the ballroom. The pickle king had spared no expense; the mansion had been decorated to look like the most decadent Suli camp imaginable. The ceiling was hung with a thousand star-shaped lanterns. Silk-covered wagons were parked around the edges of the room in a glittering caravan, and fake bonfires glowed with dancing colored light. The terrace doors had been thrown open, and the night air hummed with the rhythmic clang of finger cymbals and the wail of violins. _What does he do with all of this when the party’s over?_ I wondered.

I saw the real Suli fortune-tellers scattered throughout the crowd and realized what an eerie sight we must make in our jackal masks, but the guests didn’t seem to mind. Most of them were already well into their cups, laughing and shouting to one another in boisterous groups, gawking at the acrobats twirling from silk swings overhead. Some sat swaying in their chairs, having their fortunes told over golden urns of coffee. Others ate at the long table that had been set up on the terrace, gorging on stuffed figs and bowls of pomegranate seeds, clapping along with the music.

Mal snuck me a little glass of kvas, and we found a bench in a shadowy corner of the terrace while Tamar took up her post a discreet distance away. I rested my head against Mal’s shoulder and put my hand in his, twining our fingers and happy just to be sitting beside him, away from the Little Palace, listening to the thump and jangle of the music. It felt like forever since we’d been able to just show affection for one another like this. The air was heavy with the scent of some night-blooming flower and, beneath that, the tang of lemons. I breathed deeply, feeling some of the exhaustion and fear of the last few weeks ease away. I wriggled my foot from my slipper and let my toes dig into the cool gravel.

Mal adjusted his hood to better hide his face and tipped up his jackal mask, then reached forward and did the same with mine. He leaned in. Our masks bumped snouts.

I started to laugh.

“Next time, different costumes,” he grumbled.

“Bigger hats, definitely.”

“Maybe we could just wear baskets over our heads.”

“Well now that wouldn’t be nearly fancy enough. Think of the guests!”

Two girls came swaying up to us. Tamar was by my side in an instant and we pushed our masks back into place.

“Tell our fortunes!” the taller girl demanded, practically toppling over her friend.

Tamar shook her head, but Mal gestured to one of the little tables laid with blue enamel cups and a golden urn, and I had to suppress a grin.

The girl squealed and poured out a tiny amount of sludge-like coffee. The Suli told fortunes by reading the dregs at the bottom of the cup. She downed the coffee and grimaced.

I elbowed Mal in the side and gave him a look. _Now what?_

He rose and walked to the table.

“Hmmm,” he said, peering into the cup. “Hmmm.”

The girl seized his arm. “What is it?”

He waved me over. I bent over the cup. “Hmmm, yes I see,” I said. “I see.”

“Is it bad?” the girl asked, practically moaning.

“It is. . . .goooood,” said Mal in the most outrageous Suli accent I’d ever heard, all long vowels and sharp consonants.

The girl sighed in relief.

“You will meet a handsome stranger,” he said mysteriously.

The girls giggled and clapped their hands. I couldn’t resist.

“But he may be very wicked man,” I interjected. My accent was even worse than Mal’s. If any real Suli overheard me, I’d probably end up with a black eye. “You may must run from this man.”

“Oh,” the girls sighed in disappointment.

“You must marry _ugly_ man,” I said. “Very fet.” I held my arms out in front of me, indicating a giant belly. “He will make you heppy.”

I heard Mal fail to hold back a snort beneath his mask.

The girl sniffed. “I don’t like this fortune,” she said. “Let’s go try another one.” 

“Tch,” I said. “Philistine.”

As the girls flounced away, two rather tipsy noblemen took their place.

One had a beaky nose and wobbly jowls. The other threw back his coffee like he was gulping kvas and slammed the cup down on the table. “Now,” he slurred, twitching his bristly red mustache. “What’ve I got in store? And make it good.”

Mal pretended to study the cup. “You will come into a great fortune.”

“Already have a great fortune. What else?”

“Hm. . .” Mal hedged. “Your wife will bear you three handsome sons.”

His beak-nosed companion burst out laughing. “Then you’ll know they aren’t yours!” he bellowed.

I thought the other nobleman would take offense, but instead he just guffawed, his red face turning even redder.

“Have to congratulate the footman!” he roared.

“I hear all the best families have bastards,” chortled his friend.

“We all have dogs, too. But _we_ don’t let them sit at the table!”

I frowned and narrowed my eyes beneath my mask. I had a sneaking suspicion they were talking about Nikolai.

“Move aside,” I murmured to Mal. Then, loudly, “Oh dear,” I bemoaned, yanking the cup from his hand. “Oh dear oh dear, so sad. A _tragedy.”_

“What’s that?” said the nobleman, still laughing.

“My friend here, he not so good at this yet. Trainink, you know. I very good, tell fortunes of kings, princes, very rich men from all over world. _You,”_ I said, looking at the man, “you will go bald. Very bald.” 

He stopped laughing, and his meaty hand strayed to his already thinning red hair.

“And _you,”_ I said, jabbing a finger at his friend. Mal gave my foot a warning nudge, but I ignored him. “The gods see you. If you do not change your ways. . . you. . . will catch the KORPA!”

“The what?” he said, suitably horrified under a poor veneer of false calm.

“The korpa!” I declared in dire tones. “Very rare, very sad. _It,”_ I said, dipping my head toward his likely-grotesque crotch, “will shrink to nothink. . . and then fall off!”

He paled. His throat worked. “But—”

At that moment there was shouting from inside the ballroom and a loud crash as someone upended a table. I saw two men shoving each other.

“I think it’s time to leave,” said Tamar, edging us away from the commotion.

I was about to protest when the fight broke out in earnest. People started pushing and shoving, crowding the doors to the terrace. The music had stopped, and it looked like some of the fortune-tellers had gotten into the scramble too. Over the crowd, I saw one of the silken wagons collapse, sending fabric and wood and what looked like a drum flying. Someone came hurtling toward us and crashed into the noblemen. The coffee urn toppled off the table, and the little blue cups followed.

“Let’s go,” said Mal, reaching for his pistol. “Out the back.”

Tamar led the way, axes already in hand. I followed her down the stairs, but as we stepped off the terrace, I heard another horrible crash and a woman screaming. She was pinned beneath the banquet table. I hesitated, wanting to turn back.

Mal holstered his pistol. “Get her to the carriage,” he shouted to Tamar over the growing din. “I’ll catch up.”

“No-”

“Go! I’ll be right behind you.” He pushed into the crowd, toward the trapped woman.

Tamar practically had to drag me down the garden stairs and up a path that led back along the side of the mansion to the street. It was dark away from the glowing lanterns of the party. I let a small, soft light blossom to guide our steps.

“Don’t,” said Tamar. “This could be a distraction. You’ll give away our location.”

I let the light fade, and a second later, I heard a scuffle, a loud oof, and then—silence.

“. . .Tamar?”

I looked back toward the party, hoping I would hear Mal’s approach. I bent the light away from myself and listened.

“Tamar?” I whispered.

My heart started to pound. I raised my hands. Forget giving away our location, I wasn’t going to stand around in the dark much longer while my friends were in trouble. Then I heard a gate creak and spun around, feet crunching in the gravel, and strong hands took an awkward hold of me. I was yanked through the hedge.

I sent light searing out in a hot wave and the hands released me. I was in a stone courtyard off the main garden, bordered on all sides by yew hedges, and I was not alone.

I smelled him before I saw him—turned earth, incense, mildew. The smell of a grave. I let myself come back into view and raised my hands as the Apparat stepped out of the shadows. The priest was just as I remembered him, the same wiry black beard and relentless gaze. He still wore the brown robes of his station, but the King’s double eagle was gone from his chest, replaced by a sunburst wrought in gold thread. I narrowed my eyes at it, and then at him.

“Stay where you are,” I warned, my voice low and cold.

He bowed low. “Alina Starkov, Sol Koroleva. I mean you no harm.”

“Did you mean my guard harm?” I snapped.

“They will be safe, but I beg you to listen.”

I wanted to deny him, but the regret I felt for not trying to listen to him back before I'd fled the Little Palace hadn't left me. “What do you want? How did you know I would be here?”

“The faithful are everywhere, Sol Koroleva.”

“Don’t call me that,” I warned. 

“Every day your holy army grows, drawn by the promise of your light. They wait only for you to lead them.”

“My army? I’ve seen the pilgrims camped outside the city walls—poor, weak, hungry, all desperate for the scraps of hope you feed them. They care more about hope than they do feeding themselves.”

“There are others. Soldiers.”

I felt a pit open in my stomach. “More people who think I’m a Saint because you’ve sold them a lie? Perhaps the soldiers should spend less time fighting for me and more time fighting for the refugees who need them.”

“It is no lie, Alina Starkov. You are Daughter of Keramzin, Reborn of the Fold.”

“I didn’t die!” I hissed. “I escaped the Darkling, and I murdered an entire skiff of soldiers and Grisha to do it! Do you tell your followers that?”

“Your people are suffering. Only you can bring about the dawn of a new age, an age consecrated in holy fire.”

His eyes were wild, the black so deep I couldn’t see his pupils in the dim light. But was his madness real or part of some elaborate act? Or did he simply have himself convinced he was right?

“Just who will rule this new age?”

“You, of course. Sol Koroleva, Sankta Alina.”

“And you'll be at my right hand, I suppose?” I said, disgusted. “I read the book you gave me. Saints don’t live long lives.”

“Come with me, Alina Starkov.”

“Not while you keep evading my questions. I’m not going anywhere with you. You worked with the Darkling and tried to take over the Kingdom.”

“You are not yet strong enough to face the Darkling. I can change that.”

I stilled. The only sound was my quick breathing and the distant scuffle of the party, though that was dying down amid shouting voices. “Tell me what you know. If you want me to consider what you ask, tell me what you know.”

“Join me, and all will be revealed.”

“You are not in a position to bargain!” I advanced on him, surprised by the throb of hunger and rage that shot through me. “Where is the firebird?” I thought he might respond with confusion, that he might pretend ignorance. Instead, he smiled, his gums black and his teeth a crooked jumble. 

“Tell me, priest,” I ordered, “or I will show you what it is to be consecrated in fire, and your followers can try to pray you back together. If there are enough pieces left.” I realized that I meant it.

For the first time, he looked nervous. Good. If he had expected a tame Saint, then he was a fool.

He held up his hands, placating.

“I do not know,” he said. “I swear it. But when the Darkling left the Little Palace, he did not realize it would be for the last time. He left many precious things behind, things others believed long since destroyed.”

A surge of wild hunger crackled through me. “Journals? Do you have Morozova’s journals?”

“Come with me, Alina Starkov. There are secrets buried deep.”

He shouldn’t know about the firebird or the journals. Was he still working with the Darkling, feeding me information to lure me out of the city?

“Alina!” Mal’s voice sounded from somewhere on the other side of the hedge.

“If you want to help me,” I hissed quickly, “it will be on my terms or not at all.” Then I called out, “I’m here!”

Mal burst into the courtyard, pistol drawn. Tamar was right behind him. She’d lost one of her axes, and there was blood smeared over the front of her cloak.

The Apparat turned in a musty whirl of cloth and slipped between the bushes.

“No!” I cried, already moving to follow. Tamar bolted past me with a furious roar, diving into the hedges to give chase.

“Keep him alive!” I shouted at her disappearing back.

“Are you all right?” Mal panted as he came level with me.

I took hold of his arm. “I think he has Morozova’s journals, Mal.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” I said with an impatient, almost incredulous laugh. “But did you hear what I said?”

He drew back. “Yes, I heard you. I thought you were in danger.”

“I. . . don’t know. I don’t think he wanted to hurt me, he-”

But Tamar was already striding back to us, her face a mask of frustration. “I don’t understand it,” she said, shaking her head. “He was there and then he was just gone.”

“Saints,” I swore.

She hung her head. “Forgive me.”

I’d never seen her look so downcast. “It’s all right,” I said, my mind churning. Part of me wanted to go back down that alley and shout for the Apparat, demand that he show himself, hunt him through the city streets until I found him and pried the truth from his lying mouth. I peered down the row of hedges. I could still hear shouting from the party far behind me, and somewhere in the dark, the bells of the convent began to ring. I sighed. “Let’s get out of here.”

We found our driver waiting on the narrow side street where we’d left him. The ride back to the palace was tense.

“That brawl was no coincidence,” said Mal.

“No,” agreed Tamar, dabbing at the ugly cut on her chin. “He knew we would be there.”

“How?” Mal demanded. “No one else knew we were going. Did you tell Nikolai?”

I rolled my eyes. “No. And he wouldn't have had anything to do with this even if I had,” I said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he has nothing to gain. He wants me here, not off wandering Saints know where with some zealot.” I pressed my fingers to my temples. “Someone must have seen us leaving the palace. I thought we'd be fine in disguise, but. . . .”

“How did the Apparat get into Os Alta without being seen? How did he even know we would be at that party?”

“I don’t know,” I replied wearily. “I don’t know. He said the faithful are everywhere. And Nikolai said he's been doing this, popping up places and disappearing without a trace. Maybe one of the servants overheard.”

“We got lucky tonight,” said Tamar. “This could have been much worse.”

“I don’t think I was ever in any real danger,” I said. “He just wanted to talk. Creepily.”

“What did he say?”

I gave her the barest description, but I didn’t mention Morozova’s journals. I hadn’t talked to anyone except Mal about them or the firebird, and Tamar knew too much about the amplifiers already.

“He’s raising some kind of army,” I finished. “People who believe that I’ve risen from the dead, who think I have some kind of holy power.”

“How many?” Mal asked.

“I don’t know. He made it sound like there were a lot of them, but that may have just been talk. And I don’t know what he intends to do with them. March them against the King? Send them to fight the Darkling? I’m already responsible for the Grisha. I don’t want the burden of an army of helpless otkazat’sya.”

“We’re not all quite so feeble,” said Mal, an edge to his voice.

I gave him a look. “Which is why I said 'helpless otkazat'sya,' not just 'otkazat'sya.' You know me better than that, Mal. The Apparat may be able to appear and disappear, but you've seen the refugees, the worshipers. They're weak and underfed. I hardly expect his 'force' can be something frightening. Someone would have noticed that many people, or the movement of enough supplies to feed and outfit an army. Maybe he has one. Maybe he doesn’t. But if he does, I’d bet it’s full of _weak_ soldiers, yes.” 

He met my gaze, and when he didn't argue, I released a breath and went on. “He's using them. Just like he wanted to use me, just like he’d use anyone to get what he wanted. He’s exploiting their hope.”

“Is it any different than Nikolai parading you from village to village?”

“Not in concept, no,” I sighed. “But at least we know what Nikolai wants, what his end game is. The Apparat got close to the King, worked with the Darkling in secret, and spent the whole time I was here trying to get something from me. But I never knew what. I just thought he was a creepy old man who smelled like moldy tombs. Genya promised me he was harmless, but she was working with the Darkling, too. And she also assured me she was sending the letters I wrote to you. At least Nikolai isn’t telling people that I’m immortal or I can perform miracles or single-handedly solve all their problems.”

“No,” Mal said with disdain. “He’s just letting them believe it.”

“It’s different, Mal. Why are you still so quick to attack him?” I asked, exasperated. Why did we have to argue about this now? And why was he being so stubborn?

“Why are you so quick to defend him?”

“Maybe because I actually spend time with him.”

Instantly I realized that was the wrong thing to say when I saw Mal’s face shutter closed. I turned away, tired, frustrated, unable to think past the whir of thoughts in my head. The lamplit streets of the upper town slid by the coach’s window. We passed the rest of the ride in silence.


	21. Distantly, Somewhere, Something Cracked

Back at the Little Palace, I changed clothes while Mal and Tamar filled Tolya in on what had happened. I felt tight and tense and weary, and I was worried about how wound Mal seemed to be getting. I didn’t know what I could do for him, but I didn’t know if I wanted to accept the blame for his discomfort, either. I knew he had come here for me, and I loved him for it. But I hadn’t forced him. Now I felt like I was supposed to fix it, but I didn’t know where I could even start.

I was sitting on the bed with my knees tucked against my chest when Mal knocked and let himself in. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, looking around.

“This room is so depressing. I thought you were going to redecorate.”

I shrugged. “Seems like a waste of coin that's needed elsewhere until the Darkling is found. Besides, the ominous, depressing atmosphere really grows on you.” I had too many other things to worry about, and I’d almost gotten used to the room’s quiet gloom.

“So do you believe he has the journals?” Mal asked.

“I was surprised he even knew they existed. I'm not sure how else he could know, unless he took to sneaking into the Darkling's bedroom while they both still lived here.”

“Tamar’s right,” he said, crossing to the bed and settling by my feet. “That could have been much worse.”

“I know,” I sighed. “So much for a night off.”

“I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

I laughed harshly. “I shouldn’t have gone along with it. Technically that's probably a very accurate summary of our entire history together, though,” I said with a quirk of my lips.

He nodded, scuffing the toe of his boot along the floor. “I miss you,” he said quietly.

Soft words, but they sent a painful, welcome tremor through me. Part of me must have started doubting it. He’d been gone so often.

I touched his hand. “I miss you too. So much.”

“Come to target practice with me tomorrow,” he said. “Down by the lake.”

I sighed. “I can’t. I have to be at a meeting with a delegation of Kerch bankers,” I said acridly. “They want to see the Sun Summoner before they guarantee a loan to the Crown.”

“Tell Nikolai you’re sick.”

“Grisha don’t get sick,” I said with a tired laugh.

“Well, then tell him you’re busy,” he said.

“Busy.” I repeated dubiously.

“Other Grisha take time to—”

“I’m not other Grisha,” I said, and there was more heat in my voice than I intended. I wasn't sure the reminder wasn't directed at me more than it was at him. 

“I know that.” He let out a long, unsteady breath. _“Saints,_ I hate this place.”

I blinked, startled by the vehemence in his voice. “You do?”

“I hate the parties. I hate the people. I hate everything about it.”

“I thought. . . . You seemed. . . well, not happy exactly, but—”

“I don’t belong here, Alina,” and suddenly he sounded impossibly tired. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

I snorted. “You fit in everywhere you go, Mal. Nikolai says everyone adores you. As they always do,” I finished wryly.

“They’re amused by me,” Mal said seriously. “That’s not the same thing.” He turned my hand over, tracing the scar that ran the length of my palm. “Do you know I actually miss being on the run? Even that filthy little boardinghouse in Cofton and working in the warehouse. At least then I felt like I was doing something, not just wasting time and gathering gossip.”

I shifted uncomfortably, feeling suddenly defensive. “How do you think it was for me in there? I actually _was_ useless. Here you were, doing all the work, while I was the reason you lost everything that ever mattered to you.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but I pushed on.

“But I love you, so I worked at it. I focused on what mattered. I reminded myself, sometimes hourly, that it wouldn't be forever, just like this won't. That it was for a better future for us. You take every chance you get to be away, Mal. You don’t have to accept every invitation.”

He stared at me. “I stay away to protect you, Alina.” He sounded shocked that I didn’t already know that.

“From what?” I asked incredulously.

He stood up, pacing restlessly across the room. “What do you think people asked me on the royal hunt? The first thing? They wanted to know about me and you.” He turned on me, and when he spoke his voice was sour, bitter and angry. “‘Is it true that you’re tumbling the Sun Summoner? What’s it like with a Saint? Does she have a taste for trackers, or does she take all of her servants to her bed?’” He crossed his arms, and I could see his fists clenched underneath.

I shrugged. “You should have just told them it was an experience that lesser men couldn't hope to comprehend.” 

“This isn't a joke, Alina! Not everything is a joke, and not everything can be fixed by one!” He shoved a hand through his hair, took a heavy breath, and calmed his voice. “I stay away to put distance between us, to stop the rumors. Those walks where we're gone too long, the private meetings that run over schedule. . . Saints, probably even the night in here before I left. People notice! I shouldn’t even be in here now,” he added harshly.

The walks and meetings I could see, but. . . . “Mal, these are my personal chambers. The Grisha know not to come in without invitation, and we trust Tolya and Tamar to keep private matters private, right? The three of you literally live in my rooms.” I said uncertainly. “Rumors don’t care how much you suffer to keep them away - they’ll never stop, especially not around the figure they've all made me out to be. As far as gossip is concerned, I'm probably having affairs with the entire royal family, all three of my guards, and half the Grisha here. All at the same time, depending on how drunk you get someone before you ask. They don't bother me. But. . . why didn’t you say something?”

He shook his head. “I swear the walls have ears in this entire Saintsforsaken place. What could I have said? And when? Tonight was the first real time we've had together in weeks, I wasn't going to waste it on things that didn't matter.”

“Except this obviously does matter. A lot. I thought you were leaving on all these trips because you wanted to,” I said with a confused huff. “I _missed_ you. I would have tied you to a chair to keep you here otherwise.”

It was a long moment before he spoke. “Maybe you should have.”

I stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. I couldn’t understand how Malyen Oretsev of all people could be insecure, how he could have anything less than total certainty about what he meant to me, about how important he was and always would be to me. It was as if he refused to see the truth.

“Are you out of your mind?” I asked, my voice papery in disbelief. “Maybe I-- The only time you seem happy anymore is when you go out to track! I should have taken that away from you? I know you don't want to be here! I know you didn't want to come, you never wanted to come, but you did it anyway, for me. So why. . . how could you think. . . .” I couldn't make a coherent sentence come out of my mouth, I was so knocked sideways. 

He raised his hands as if to gentle me, opened his mouth to speak, but then dropped them helplessly. “I don't know who I am here, Alina,” he said, sounding as if a piece of him was going numb, and in that moment I saw he'd been hiding the worst of his struggle from me. “It isn't just that I'm some nameless accessory, it isn't that I don't have a real job to do. I could be ok with one of those things, maybe even both, and at first, it was almost a little fun sneaking around. But only at first.

“What we have is still so new, but it feels old, too, like it should have always been there. Like it _was_ always there, but I was too stupid,” he practically spat the word in disgust, “to see what you were and what we could have had. What we should have had. 

“You make me feel alive, and whole, and right, and nervous and afraid and happy and excited and. . . . Now I don't know. We're here, and,” he laughed, but it was not a happy sound, “I see how tired you are, how pinched all of this makes you, how often you'd rather throw a report at someone's head than listen to them say one more asinine thing, but Alina, you were _built_ for it. You fit better here, commanding in a palace surrounded by servants and subjects, than anywhere I've ever seen you, and I _don't._

“You hated the army. I hate this. I fit where you don't, and you fit where I don't, and I can't help but wonder. . . . “

Silence stretched between us. I felt helpless, unsure of what to say. An echo of my own thought, from last year shook through me like a rock in an empty bottle, and I felt sick. _That day on the Shadow Fold, Mal had saved my life, and I had saved his. Maybe that had been meant to be the end of us._ But that was when I thought he had abandoned me, had never really cared at all.

“I feel you slipping away from me,” he said, sounding utterly helpless and halfway to completely gutted. “And I don’t know how to stop it.”

Tears pricked my eyes. I rose to stand in front of him. “I'm not going anywhere,” I said fiercely, taking his face in my hands and gripping it roughly. “I will never slip away, not from you. I don't care where we are, I don't care what changes, I don't care what utter garbage we have to put up with, and I don't care about the saintsforsaken rumors,” I spat. “Let people talk. I'm playing my part and that's all anyone gets to care about. 

“I have loved you since I met you as an odd, sickly, lonely little girl, Mal. I loved you as an awkward teenager, I loved you as an army recruit, I loved you even when I wanted to pitch you into a fire or a lake every time you snuck off with another girl. I loved you when months went by with no more contact than seeing each other across mess at meals. We can get through this, _you_ can get through this. Because you’re not going through it alone. Then we can spit on the royal courtyard for good measure and leave, just the two of us. We can go anywhere in the world and never look back. I've told you this before. I meant it every time and I meant it now. 

“You think I fit here. But where I have always truly fit is with _you._ I don't feel right when you're not there, not ever. This,” I said, casting my eyes around us, “all of this, is just a means to an end. This is so we can be free of that bastard and so neither of us have to live through me waking up screaming every night or being hunted every minute. Until then, we'll find a way. Just like we always do. We'll. . . I don't know, we'll make more time, we'll--”

“It’s not just that,” he said softly. Gently. “Ever since you put on the second amplifier, you’ve been different, Alina.” 

I felt a pit open up in my stomach and my face go slack. Here was the heart of it. _He will never understand you, and if he does, he will only come to fear you._ Something sick and low in my gut clenched painfully, fearfully. 

“When you split the dome, the way you talk about the firebird. . . . I heard you speaking to Zoya the other day. She was scared. And you liked it.”

It was a long moment before I could answer. “. . .I know,” I whispered, heart cracking at the truth of the words. “I've been putting a lot of thought into it.” And spending a lot of time talking to a very realistic hallucination about it.

I felt sick worry, I felt shame and guilt and it all swelled and rose together to be covered by the protection of defensive anger. Anger was so much easier, and if it was what I felt, then I didn’t have to face what I was afraid of.

“And. . . so what?” I challenged, letting the heat swell behind my words. “That fucking--” I bit back on the insult with gritted teeth and closed my eyes against it, _“woman,”_ I finished through a tight jaw, “deserves everything she gets, and she has no business here,” I growled. “She _loathes_ me, Mal, she always did, and you have no idea what she was like, who she really is. All you saw of her was--” again, I bit back what I wanted to say. I didn't even want to think of the words that would refer to his “acquaintance” with her. 

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You can't know what this is like for me, not really. The fear, the responsibility, all over something I never asked for, never _wanted—”_

“I know. I know that. And I see the toll it’s taking. But you chose this. You have a purpose here. I'm. . .” he took a breath. “I don’t think I even know what I’m doing here anymore.”

My face went slack. “Yes you do. Please tell me you do, that you don't mean that. When Nikolai proposed this, I know you hated the idea, but you didn’t give me any alternatives, Mal. And regardless of your reasons, you chose to come, too. So how are you standing here and complaining about it now like it's my fault? Like I did this to you?” My voice was wavering between incredulity and disbelief. Somewhere beneath it, anger was threatening to uncurl. 

“You don't get to keep throwing all of this in my face like I forced you,” I said, heat creeeping back into my words. “Nothing else would have worked, and you damn well know it. So how. . . how can you. . . .” Abruptly, I deflated. “Just, please. . . don’t say you don't belong here. 'You belong with me,' remember? You said that. This won't last forever,” I said yet again. “We came here for freedom and duty and Ravka. We—”

“No, Alina,” he said firmly. _”You_ came here for all of that. For the firebird. To lead the Second Army. You came because for you, there was no other choice and no other way to get what you wanted. I understand that. I try to respect it. It's why I'm here, because you had to do it. Because I'm with you.” 

He tapped the sun over his heart. “I came here for _you._ You’re my flag. You’re my nation. But that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Do you realize this is the first time we’ve really been alone since my first hunting trip? It’s been weeks. And we're spending it arguing. There's something between us here that's never been there before and I'm afraid there might not be any way through it. You're changing. 

“. . . I'm not,” He finished.

I heard the phantom’s words in my mind as though they were an echo of what Mal had just said. The washed through me like the roil of rough waves under a boat.

_Are you still his little soldier now that you have a ranking position at court?_

_He knows there is no world in which he can have you._

_The two of you don’t belong together, Alina. You both see it, and if you’re honest with yourself, you know that._

_No matter how much you fight, the end result will not change._

I put a hand to my stomach; I felt like I was going to be sick on the floor.

The knowledge of the growing, undeniable distance settled over us, and the room seemed unnaturally quiet. Mal took a single tentative step toward me. Then he closed the space between us in two long strides. One hand slid around my waist, the other cupped my face. Gently, he tilted my mouth up to his. My hands, unusually hesitant, fisted in his tunic and held on for everything I was worth.

“Come back to me,” he said softly. “You're Alina. Whatever else you are, you're Alina. I love you.” He drew me to him, but as his lips met mine and my lids started to flutter closed, a motion flickered in the corner of my eye.

The Darkling was standing behind Mal. I stiffened and sucked in a breath. _No,_ I thought in a panic. _Not now._

Mal pulled back. “What?” he said.

“I--There's. . .he--” I shook myself. “Uh, nothing,” I said quickly, half stuttering. “Nothing. I thought I saw. . . something.”

But the Darkling was still there. I darted a glare at him.

“Tell him you see me when he takes you in his arms,” he said.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tensed, clenching Mal’s tunic so fiercely that my hands hurt, and turned my face away from him.

Mal dropped his hands and stepped away from me, prying my hands from his shirt. His fingers curling into fists. “I guess that's all I need to know.”

My eyes snapped open. “What? No,” I hurried, reaching for him. “Mal, don't--”

“You should have stopped me, Alina. All that time I was standing there, going on like a fool. And you let me.” He laughed bitterly. “Why did you play along? Do you even realize it? Do you even know what you want? What you _don't_ want?” he added, eyes going hard. 

“How long has it been like this? Weeks? Months? How long have you been faking it? What, trying to spare my feelings? Come on. If you didn’t want me, you should have had the courage to say so. You've been a lot of things in your life, but a coward was never one of them.”

“Don’t feel too bad, tracker,” said the phantom quietly, his eyes on me. “All men can be made fools.”

I tried to ignore him even as I felt the blood drain from my face. “Mal, don't be stupid,” I said weakly. “I don't want you?” I asked incredulously. “How could you think--” I looked down at the scar in my palm. “That wasn't it. It's not true, and it wasn't why I--”

“Is it Nikolai?”

“What?” I asked, scrunching up my face in surprise and reflexive denial. “No!”

“Another otkazat’sya, Alina?” the Darkling mocked.

My eyes darted to him, cold and angry. “Shut. Up,” I hissed at it.

“What?” Mal asked.

“Nothing! I wasn't. . . . Oh, _Saints.”_ I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed the heel of one of my hands hard against the side of my head, muttering almost silently to myself. When I opened them, the Darkling was still there. I let out an angry growl.

Mal shook his head in in anger, in disgust at himself, at the situation, but because I knew him so well, I could see the hurt it was protecting. “I let him push me away,” he said. His tone sounded so final, as if he had already accepted this. “The meetings, the council sessions, the meals together, the late nights. I let him edge me out. Just waiting, trusting you to stay with me and tell him, to tell all of them to go to hell.” _I can't believe what an utter and complete fool I've been,_ he didn't have to say.

I swallowed, trying to block out the vision of the Darkling’s cold, satisfied smile. I pivoted around the side of Mal to turn my back on it.

“I have told him to go to hell!” I cried. “I just said minutes ago that they could all go to hell! How can you even think that anyone could push you out? There's never been anyone but you, you idiot, even when you didn't know I existed! I don't understand this insecurity you have about me, you haven't been insecure since we were children! There couldn't be anyone else. Mal. . . .”

Suddenly, I knew I couldn't keep it from him any more. Not now, not with the trouble we were having and the wedge it was driving between us. I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself to force the words out. “The Darkling. Since the Fold, I've been se--”

“I don’t want to hear about the Darkling anymore!” he shouted, and my eyes snapped open. “Or Ravka or duty or the amplifiers or how it's everyone else's fault or any of it!” He slashed his hand through the air, then stopped, as if he almost couldn't believe what he was about to say. “. . .I’m done. I'm _done,_ Alina.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

I lunged after him and grabbed his arm in a rough grip, halting him. “Mal, _stop,”_ I begged. “If you’ll just listen, I promise it isn't what you th--”

“You flinched!” He yelled. “You tensed, and you froze up. _In my arms,_ Alina, as I was about to kiss you. Tell me you didn’t!”

I shook my head. “Yes, I did, but it wasn’t because of you. It didn't have anything to do with you, I promise!”

He shook his own head and closed his eyes with a harsh laugh. “Stop. Please, just stop. I can't. . . . It's my fault. All of it. I know that, and don't think I don’t hate myself for it. I waited too long, years too long. I was a stupid, blind, selfish child. But I can't go back and fix it, and this is what it is now, and it doesn't do either of us any favors to pretend otherwise.

“Don't lie to me anymore. Not for me, not for you. And for Saints sake, don't lie to _yourself._ We both deserve better. Even if we thought. . . .” He looked at me, and for a moment I saw a plea in his eyes, but he just shook his head. “What just happened told us everything we needed to know, ok? So just let it be. Please. I promise you,” he added with a bitter laugh, “it won't be an issue again.” With that, he turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

I stood rooted to the slate floor, feeling like I couldn’t breathe. I opened my mouth to call after him again, to shout at him to wait, to force him to listen if I had to. This couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be happening. Now now, not after everything we’d been through to get here. But I couldn't make any words come out. In an instant, I saw hundreds of times Mal had walked away from me. Walked away to be with friends, with a woman, to go on a hunt, on assignment. I saw him walk away the night of the winter fete.

I stared at the closed doors and felt two fat tears roll down my stunned face. It felt as if my chest was caving in on itself. 

I took the few steps forward and reached out to touch the bone handle. Suddenly I wanted to rip it off. I heard someone whisper, “Why? Why won't you listen? Why don't you know me?” It wasn't for a long time that I realized it had been my voice.

I bit down hard on my lip to silence the sob that shook my chest. I was so, so tired of crying. A horrible part of my mind cautioned that if I broke down, the servants would overhear, and that was what caused my hold on myself to break. Tears began to spill over in earnest. My blurred vision cleared, and sorrow cascaded from my eyes in fat drops. 

An ache started between my ribs, a hard, bright shard of pain that lodged beneath my sternum, pressing tight against my heart. I keened around it and put a hand over my mouth to muffle the sounds.

I didn’t hear the Darkling move; I only knew when he was beside me. His long fingers brushed the hair back from my neck and rested on the collar. When he kissed my cheek, his lips were cool.

I slid to the floor, still clutching the door handle, staring at nothing. After a moment, I felt him lower himself next to me. He stayed there as I shook with tears. 

“He has never known you, Alina,” the Darkling said quietly. “He has never really wanted to.

“It hurts now, but the hard truths always do. Realizing you're different always does. It will only get better from here.” He leaned in close to my ear and murmured, his breath warm on my skin, “And you won’t be alone through it.”

When he put an arm around me and gently pulled me to him, when he held me as I buried my face and fists in his black kefta and sobbed quietly, stifling keens against his chest that left me feeling raw and exposed, I felt too boneless with sorrow to push him away. Too tired to fight whatever madness this was. Too alone to refuse the only comfort I had, even if it meant I was somehow giving this madness my permission, my blessing to take hold. Perhaps this was one step too far. I couldn't make myself care.

It wasn't until later, drifting off in bed to the feel of him stroking my hair, that I realized I had stopped thinking of the apparition as “it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back I guess? Yeah, idk. xD


	22. Water In The Desert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our dear beta got some kickass acrylics, only to realize that typing in those bad boys should be an olympic sport. So we are temporarily *GASP* sans Beta

Early the next morning, I tracked down David on the roof of the Little Palace, where construction had begun on his gigantic mirrored dishes. He’d set up a makeshift workspace in the shade of one of the domes, and it was already covered in bits of shiny detritus and discarded drawings. The barest breeze ruffled their edges. I recognized Nikolai’s scrawl in one of the margins.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Better,” he said, studying the slick surface of the nearest dish. “I think I’ve gotten the curvature right. We should be ready to try them out soon.”

“How soon?” We were still receiving conflicting reports of the Darkling’s location, but if he hadn’t finished creating his army yet, it wouldn’t be long.

“A couple of weeks,” David said.

“Can it be ready any faster?”

“You can have it soon, or you can have it right,” he admonished.

“. . .David. . . I need to know someth—”

“I told you everything I know about Morozova.”

“Not about him,” I said. “Not exactly. If. . .if I wanted to remove the collar. How would I do that?”

“You can’t,” he said simply, looking down at a sheet of calculations.

“Not now. But after--”

“No,” he interrupted again, still without looking at me. “It’s not like other amplifiers. It can’t just be taken off. You’d have to break it, violate its structure. The results would be catastrophic.”

“. . .How catastrophic?”

“I can’t be certain,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure it would make the Fold look like a paper cut.”

“. . .A paper cut,” I said. “Ah.” Then it would be the same with the fetter. Whatever I was becoming, there was no taking it back. I’d clung to the vain hope that the visions were the result of the bite from the nichevo’ya and that the effects might somehow diminish as the wound slowly healed. But that wasn’t happening. And even if it did, I would always be tied to the Darkling through the collar even if he couldn’t use it to control me. Again I wondered why he hadn’t chosen to try to kill the sea whip himself to restore that lost control.

David picked up a bottle of ink and began twirling it between his fingers. He looked miserable. Not just miserable, I thought. Guilty. He had forged this connection, placed this chain around my neck for eternity.

Gently, I took the ink bottle from his hands. “You know that if you hadn’t done it, someone else would have, David.”

He twitched, something between a nod and a shrug. I set the ink down at the far edge of the table where his jittery fingers couldn’t reach it and turned to go.

“Alina. . . ?”

I stopped and looked back at him. His cheeks had gone bright red. The warm breeze lifted the edges of his shaggy hair. At least that awful haircut was growing out.

“I heard. . . I heard Genya was on the ship. With the Darkling.”

I felt a pang of sorrow for her. So David hadn’t been completely oblivious.

“She was,” I said.

“She’s all right?” he asked hopefully.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “She was when we escaped.” But if the Darkling knew that she’d as good as let us go, I didn’t know how he might have dealt with her. He blinded his own mother for costing him my power once. I hesitated. “I tried to get her to come with us. I begged.”

His face fell. “But she stayed?”

“I think she feels like she owes him,” I said. I felt a prickle of discomfort that I was making excuses for Genya, but I didn’t like the idea of David thinking less of her.

“I should have. . .” He didn’t seem to know how to finish.

“David we all should have. A lot of things. But we didn’t know. We do the best we can,” I offered lamely.

David looked at me then, the regret plain on his face. No matter what I said, we both knew the hard truth. We do our best. We try. And usually, at best it makes no difference at all.

 

* * * * *

 

I carried a black mood with me to the next meeting at the Grand Palace. Nikolai’s plan seemed to be working. Though Vasily still dragged himself to the council chamber for our meetings with the ministers, he was arriving later and later, and occasionally I caught him dozing off. The one time he failed to appear, Nikolai hauled him from his bed, cheerfully insisting that he get dressed and that we simply couldn’t proceed without him. It took everything I had to keep from laughing. A clearly hungover Vasily had made it through half of the meeting, swaying at the head of the table, before he bolted into the hallway to vomit noisily into a lacquered vase.

Today, even I was having trouble staying awake. Any bit of breeze had vanished, and despite the open windows, the crowded council chamber was unbearably stuffy. The meeting plodded on until one of the generals announced the dwindling numbers from the First Army’s troop rolls. The ranks had been thinned by death, desertion, and years of brutal war. Given that Ravka was about to be fighting on at least one front again, the situation was dire.

Vasily waved a lazy hand and said, “Why all the gnashing of teeth? Just lower the draft age.”

I had to keep from jerking upright. I sat straighter and stiffened. “To what?” I asked carefully.

“Fourteen? Fifteen?” Vasily offered. “What is it now?”

I felt my nostrils flare and I sucked in a lungfull of air, but caught myself just before the words I wanted to say left my lips. I thought of all the villages Nikolai and I had passed through, the cemeteries that stretched for miles. “Seventeen.” I was controlled, but anyone who knew me would hear the cold warning in my voice. “But why not just drop it to twelve and spare yourself future discussion?”

“One is never too young to serve one’s country,” Vasily declared.

I don’t know if it was exhaustion or anger, but the words were out of my mouth before I thought better of them. “And how would you know?” I snapped. “Why stop there? Bring them in from the womb! I’m sure babies would make excellent cannon fodder. They’d certainly give the enemy pause.”

A disapproving murmur rose from the King’s advisers and it took everything I had not to shout at them. Beneath the table, Nikolai reached over and gave my hand a firm warning squeeze.

“Brother, bringing them in younger won’t stop them from deserting and dying,” he said to Vasily.

“Then we find some deserters and make an example of them.”

Nikolai raised a brow. “Are you sure that death by firing squad is more terrifying than the prospect of being torn apart by nichevo’ya?”

“If they even exist,” Vasily scoffed.

I went rigid. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

Nikolai squeezed my hand so hard that his knuckles must have gone white. A dull, angry glow was beginning to collect on my skin.

Above the table, he just smiled pleasantly. “I saw them myself aboard the Volkvolny. Surely you’re not calling me a liar.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that treason is preferable to honest service in the King’s Army.”

I was mentally sputtering over what I wanted to shout at him first.

“I’m suggesting that maybe these people are just as fond of life as you are. They’re ill-equipped, undersupplied, and short on hope. If you’d read the reports, you’d know that officers are having trouble keeping order in the ranks.”

“Then they should institute harsher punishments,” said Vasily. “It’s what peasants understand.”

I felt my eyes slip closed. I’d already punched one prince. What was one more? I was halfway out of my seat before Nikolai yanked me back down.

“They understand full bellies and clear directives,” he said. “If you would let me implement the changes I’ve suggested and open the coffers for—”

“You cannot always have your way, little brother.”

Tension crackled through the room and my halo was bright enough that even the advisors had begun to notice.

“The world is changing,” said Nikolai, the steel edge emerging in his voice, and for once I was viciously happy to hear it. “We change with it, or there will be nothing left to remember us but the dust.”

Vasily laughed. “I can’t decide if you’re a fearmonger or a coward.”

“And I can’t decide if you’re an idiot or an idiot.”

“Definitely an idiot,” I quipped without missing a beat.

Vasily’s face turned purple. He shot to his feet and smacked his hands down on the table. “The Darkling is one man. If you’re afraid to face him—”

“I have faced him. If you’re not afraid—if any of you aren’t afraid—it’s because you lack the sense to understand what we’re up against.”

Some of the generals nodded. But the King’s advisers, Os Alta’s noblemen and bureaucrats, all of them completely useless, looked skeptical and sullen. To them, war was parades, military theory, little figures moved around on a map. If it came to it, these were the men who would ally themselves with Vasily, and there were more of them than there were of us.

Nikolai squared his shoulders, the actor’s mask descending over his features once more. I couldn’t deny that his performances were impressive to behold. “Peace, brother,” he said. “We both want what’s best for Ravka.”

But Vasily wasn’t interested in being soothed. “What’s best for Ravka is a Lantsov on the throne.”

My halo exploded outward and contracted into a thin, dense layer. Heat radiated from me. A deadly stillness descended over the room. Vasily had as good as called Nikolai a bastard.

But Nikolai had regained his composure, and now nothing would shake it. “Then let us all say a prayer for Ravka’s rightful King,” he said. “Now, shall we finish our business?”

The meeting limped along for a few more minutes and then came to a welcome close. My hands ached from being clenched so hard under the table by the end of it, and the light around me had barely diminished. It began to dissipate during our walk back to the Little Palace, but Nikolai was uncharacteristically silent.

I couldn’t help but think how much easier this would all be if the useless idiots were removed from their positions of power. How much easier it would be to have people in positions of power who deserved them.

When we reached the gardens by the pillared folly, Nikolai paused to pluck a leaf from a hedge and said, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper that way. It just pricks his pride, makes him dig in his heels.”

I huffed a laugh. At least we'd both insulted Vasily. “If you hadn’t, I might have committed treason. At least you weren't going to hit him. But. . . why did you? Lose your temper, I mean. I’ve never seen that mask you wear slip like that,” I asked, genuinely curious. It was rare for Nikolai’s emotions to get the best of him.

“I don’t know,” he said, shredding the leaf. “You got angry. I got angry. The room was too damn hot.”

“Ah. Yes, of course. The classic and deadly trio,” I said, disbelief obvious in my tone.

“Indigestion?” he offered.

But I wasn’t going to be put off by a joke. Despite Vasily’s objections and the council’s reluctance to do much of anything, through some magical combination of patience and pressure, Nikolai had still managed to push through a few of his plans, and Ravka was the better for them. He’d gotten them to approve relief for the refugees fleeing the shores of the Fold, and requisitioned Materialki corecloth to outfit key regiments of the First Army. He’d even gotten them to divert funds for a plan to modernize farm equipment so that peasants could manage something other than subsistence. Small things, but improvements that might make all the difference, and not just now but in the long term.

Lately I had begun to find myself almost admiring him. Respect for him was worming its way under my skin.

I put a fingertip under his chin and angled his face until he was looking at me again, then dropped it back to my side. “It’s because you actually care about what happens to this country,” I said. “That makes it hard to watch people who don’t try to run it into the ground when it needs them most. The throne is just a prize to Vasily, something he wants to squabble over like a toy. You’re not like that. To you, it's a means to an end. It's another tool you can use to make things better for your people. You, Nikolai. . .you will make a good king.” I paused. “And I’ll do _almost_ ” I said the word with a pointed look, “anything to make that happen.”

Nikolai froze. “I. . .” For once, words seemed to have deserted him. Then a crooked, embarrassed smile crept across his face. It was a far cry from his usual self-assured grin. “Thank you,” he said.

I smiled as we resumed our pace in silence. “You know,” I said idly, “If I'd known complimenting you was the way to get you to shut up, I would have tried it long ago.” Then I sighed. “. . .You’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?”

Nikolai laughed. “I’m already insufferable.”

 

* * * * *

 

The days grew longer. The sun stayed close beneath the horizon, and the festival of Belyanoch began in Os Alta. Even at midnight, the skies were never truly dark, and despite the fear of war and the looming threat of the Fold, the city celebrated the endless hours of twilight. In the upper town, the evenings were crowded with operas, masques, and lavish ballets. Over the bridge, raucous horse races and outdoor dances shook the streets of the lower town. An endless stream of pleasure boats bobbed through the canal, and beneath the glimmering dusk, the slow-moving water circled the capital like a jeweled bangle, alight with lanterns hung from a thousand prows.

The heat had relented slightly. Behind the palace walls, everyone seemed in better spirits. I’d continued to insist that the Grisha mix their Orders, and I still wasn’t sure how, but at some point, uncomfortable silence had given way to laughter and noisy conversation. There were still cliques and conflicts, but there was also something comfortable and boisterous in the hall that hadn’t been there before.

I was glad—maybe even a little proud—to see Fabrikators and Etherealki drinking tea around one of the samovars, or Fedyor arguing a point with Pavel over breakfast, or Nadia’s little brother trying to chat up an older and decidedly disinterested Natalya. It often made me smile, but I felt as if I were watching them from a great distance.

Mal would have nothing to do with me outside an official capacity since our last night together. I’d tried to talk to him several times, but I couldn't bring myself to try telling him that I had been seeing the Darkling again. He always found an excuse to walk away from me. If he wasn’t hunting, he was playing cards at the Grand Palace or haunting some tavern in the lower town with his new friends. I could tell he’d been drinking more. Some mornings his eyes looked bleary and he sported bruises and cuts as if he’d been in a brawl, but he was unfailingly punctual, groomed, relentlessly polite. He kept to his guard duties, stood silently in doorways, and maintained a respectful distance as he trailed me around the grounds. I had begun to feel lonelier than when I’d thought he’d abandoned me all those months ago.

Part of me wondered why he was even still here, when he so obviously didn’t want to be.

The Little Palace had become a very lonely place. I was surrounded by people, but I almost felt like they couldn’t see me, only what they needed from me. I was afraid to show doubt or indecision, and there were days when I felt like I was being worn down to nothing by the constant weight of responsibility and expectation.

The Darkling’s visits increased.

I went to my meetings. I trained with Botkin. I spent long hours at the lake experimenting with the limits of my power and trying to hone my use of the Cut, and what few abilities I didn't mind others knowing I had. Some days I did nothing but stand still and let the light wash over me, bright and blinding, unending and for longer and longer periods. Nikolai told me that when I did, it could be seen from the Grand Palace, even in the middle of the day. Once the pilgrims outside the city walls had seen it, and it had almost caused a riot. Part of me resented knowing that even here I had to hold myself back now. I even swallowed my pride and made another attempt to visit Baghra, hoping that, if nothing else, I might coax her out of the mire she'd buried herself in. But she refused to see me.

None of it was enough. The ship that Nikolai was building in the lake was a reminder that everything we were doing was most likely futile. Somewhere out there, the Darkling, a powerful Grisha and a masterful tactician with hundreds of years of experience, was gathering his forces, building his army, and when they came, no gun, no bomb, no soldier or Grisha would be able to stop them. Not even me. If the battle went badly, we would retreat to the domed hall to await relief from Poliznaya. The doors were reinforced with Grisha steel, and the Fabrikators had already started sealing up cracks and gaps to prevent entry by the nichevo’ya. I didn’t think it would come to that.

I’d reached a dead end in my attempts to locate the firebird. If David couldn’t get those dishes working, then when the Darkling finally marched on Ravka, we would have no choice but to evacuate. Run and keep running.

Using my power brought me only a pale shadow of the comfort it once had. Every time I summoned light in the Materialki workshops or on the shore of the lake, I felt the bareness of my wrist like a brand. I continued to call it, but rather than making me feel more, it felt like it took something away. Even with everything I knew about the amplifiers and the danger they posed and the destruction they might bring, the permanence of the way they might change me, I couldn’t escape my hunger for the second fetter. It was like a force outside of myself.

Mal had been right. It had become an obsession. At night I lay in bed, imagining that the Darkling had already found the final piece of Morozova’s puzzle. Part of me - a very small part - even thought sometimes that it might be worth living under his control just to feel whole again.

I knew all the stories about the firebird by now. It wept diamond tears, its song could lull entire armies to sleep, its feathers could heal mortal wounds, the future might be seen in the flap of its wings. I’d scoured book after book of folklore, epic poetry, and collections of peasant tales, searching for some pattern or clue. The sea whip’s legends centered around the icy waters of the Bone Road and Morozova’s Stag around the snow of the north, but stories of the firebird came from every part of Ravka and beyond. They rarely matched, and none of them connected the creature to a Saint.

The Darkling appeared to me almost every day, usually in my chambers or the aisles of the library, sometimes in the war room during council meetings or as I walked back from the Grand Palace at dusk. To often now, though I didn’t even want to admit to myself, I welcomed it.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I whispered one night as he hovered behind me while I tried to work at my desk.

Long minutes passed. I didn’t think he would answer. I even had time to hope he might have gone, until I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Then I’d be alone, too,” he said, and he stayed the whole night through, till the lamps burned down to nothing. When he twined his fingers with mine above the blanket, I didn't fight him.

His worst visit by far, though, even worse than seeing him while discussing strategy with the Grisha counsel or having him stare at me while I ate in the grand hall, was an afternoon where I found enough time to myself to take a bath. As I lay enjoying the heat of the water, my shoulder began to ache and throb, a feeling I had memorized by now. So when I opened my eyes to find him watching me, I was unsurprised.

I clenched my jaw, growled at him to go away, and leaned my head back and let my eyes slip closed again. But it was impossible to relax, because I knew he was still there. I laid in the huge tub so long waiting for him to leave that I had to reheat the water.

Ire pricked at me and the bite on my shoulder tugged in response. I had things to do, and this was meant to have been relaxing. Mostly, though, I was angry at myself. He wasn't real, so why was I treating him like he was? Why was I hiding in the tub, waiting for him to vanish?

I sighed tightly and forced myself to rise. I stepped up out of the water, trying to be as unabashed as I would have been if my regiment had been there instead of him. Steam rose from my skin. I bent over and began to wring out my hair.

When I glanced up at him, the look on his face as he watched mine gave me pause. I straightened slowly, and though his eyes stayed locked on mine, something in them made me flush from head to toe.

After a moment, his eyes slowly traveled down the length of me. He took his time, and I felt my skin prick and the skin of my chest tighten. When his eyes finally made it back to mine, a naked hunger in them had me grabbing my robe and wrapping it around myself as fast as I could. One corner of his mouth twitched.

I brushed past him and hadn’t made it out of the bathing room when a knock at the door of my chamber made me jump.

“Alina?” Mal's voice called. He sounded haggard and distant and weary. I heard him walk in.

My eyes darted to the entryway. “I’m just out of the bath, Mal,” I answered. I kept my eyes off the Darkling.

“. . .Ah.” He hesitated.

There was a pause, and I saw what looked like amusement and smug satisfaction flit over the Darkling's face. It wasn’t even buried as quickly as it would have been by the real thing.

“Nikolai wants to have breakfast with you,” Mal said, his voice professional but utterly expressionless. “Said he wants to talk about the meeting with the ambassadors.”

I cursed under my breath. “It might be tolerable if you're there,” I offered with forced lightness.

“. . .I'm not on duty tomorrow morning. Tamar is,” he said in that same detached voice.

I sighed and sat down on the edge of a chair. “Right,” I breathed to myself.

“I'm. . . busy, Mal,” I answered wearily. “Just tell him I'm busy.”

“Understood, soverenyi.” I heard his steps take him from the room, and the latch as the door closed behind him.

I squeezed my eyes closed against the sharp jab of hollowness I felt every time he called me that. I put my head in my hands and sat like that for several long minutes.

And still the Darkling was there.

“You know,” I said, looking up at him, “for a phantom, you're a real pervert.”

“The tracker didn't come in.”

“You're just as observant as the real thing.” I said, salty.

“Why?”

“Saints take you, that's why. Go away.”

He didn't answer, but when I went into my room, he followed.

As I dressed, he asked in a conversational tone, “do you always change behind the dressing screen when no one is in the room?”

“Only when said no one stares at me like I'm water in the desert. You look too much like him. It's unsettling. Hmm. . . which, if you are anything like him, is probably the point.”

When I emerged, I found him lounging in one of the arm chairs by the fireplace. I ignored him and went to my desk. “Do you ever wonder, Alina?” he asked idly, as if inquiring over my thoughts on what to have for dinner. “What it would have been be like with him? Or have you cast that aside in the face of true love?” His tone was mocking.

“Which him?” I asked mulishly. Then added, my tone bitter, “I have so many options these days.”

He only looked at me. I knew he meant the Darkling.

“That’s an awfully personal question,” I said.

“If I'm not real, what's the harm in answering it?”

“If you're in my head, why should I need to?” I replied with an acid smile.

His lips twitched. “Perhaps I'm a sign that you want to be honest with yourself.”

I snorted and sat down at the desk to begin began going through the never-ending requests and reports. “A fool's enterprise if I ever heard one.”

“It's funny, don't you think?”

“What’s that?” I asked absently. I regretted giving him the opening immediately.

He had seated himself in a nearby chair and was watching me like a cat eyeing prey, somehow looking relaxed and regal at the same time. “When you were taken away, the tracker couldn’t fight hard enough for you. Now that he finally has you, he can’t get away fast enough.”

I was surprised the pen in my hand didn’t snap under the force of my grip.

I refused to answer, and blessedly, he shut the hell up. After several false starts, I got absorbed in my work. A servant came in to deliver dinner and tea. I ate and returned to my work and still he was there, watching me.

“You've never stayed this long,” I pointed out without looking up. Then, in a caustic undertone added, “Not while I was conscious.”

“Perhaps you’ve never need me to,” he replied quietly. _Gently._

My hands stilled. I felt a tremor run through me, and before I could think about it, I pushed up from the desk and moved to stand in front of him. “Stand up,” I said, my voice serious.

After a pause, he rose slowly, indulgently, and I was so close to him that I could feel the heat coming off his body. It reminded me of the day in the chapel.

I stared at him for a long while, then hesitantly put my hands to his face. He studied me. I felt the planes and lines, the curves and hollows. His soft lashes. His ears. His lips. When I traced my fingers along his throat and neck and down to his chest, his eyes slid closed, and I felt an unwelcome swell of heat in my center.

I let his ink-black hair loose from the knot at the back of his head and watched as it slid free like silk. I ran my fingers through it, all the way to soft ends that hung past his shoulders. I rubbed the material of his kefta between my fingers, and felt the fur lining. I picked up his hands, one at a time, and ran my fingers over the palms and pads, the crooks between his fingers.

There were no holes. No mistakes. He was as real and solid and perfect as if the Darkling himself had been standing in front of me. I leaned in, hesitant and slow, and put my nose to the crook at the side of his neck. I inhaled. He had that same cool, winter-light, nighttime scent that had so caught me off guard when I had first come into this room.

I leaned back to find he had closed his eyes again.

“What are you?” I whispered, a hint of the anguish I’d been feeling creeping into my voice. “If I'm going mad. . . shouldn't someone have noticed by now? Why are you here?”

It brought a hand up to brush its knuckles along my cheek and down the line of my jaw. “Because you want me to be,” he said quietly.

For the first time, I considered whether that might really be true. “Saints,” I said, “Just tell me. Please. If you're not here to torment me, then _why are you?_ Why are you here?” I asked desperately, pleading in my voice.

It was a moment before he answered. “I need you, Alina. And you need me.”

A sound like a groan and a sob and a growl all in one ripped its way loose from my throat at I leaned into him, resting my forehead against the front of his shoulder and gripping fistfulls of his kefta to keep from throwing something.

“Why him?” I whispered, my voice rough and unsteady. “Why do you look like him?”

He rested his cheek atop my head and stroked my hair. His touch was so gentle, my eyes slid closed. He wrapped an arm around my back. “Who else would I look like?” He asked it like the answer was obvious.

A surge of desperate anger welled up and yanked at what I had in my hands, pulling against him even as my forehead stayed on his shoulder. A bitter laugh, barely a breath, pushed out of me. “Is that supposed to mean that I secretly want him? Because I don't. I can’t _stand_ him.” My voice was cold when I finished.

He didn't answer. He only kept me wrapped in his arms, head resting against mine, gently stroking my hair.

“Selfish, manipulative, bastard,” I accused brokenly.


	23. Where I’ve Always Been

I got used to seeing him waiting for me at the end of corridors or sitting at the edge of my bed when I fell asleep at night. Some nights, I would lay awake simply watching him as he watched me, and though I was never sure how, my hand would often end up in his. Sometimes, I would wake in the morning to find him sitting next to me, eyes on my face. Much as I didn’t care for it, those were the better mornings. Sometimes we talked. More often, though, he simply hovered while I ate, walked, read reports, talked with Nikolai or Tolya or Tamar, combed my hair, sat through meetings. When he didn’t appear, I found myself looking for him or wondering why he hadn’t come, and that bothered and frightened me most of all.

The one bright spot was Vasily’s decision to abandon Os Alta for the yearling auctions in Caryeva. I crowed with delight when Nikolai gave me the news on one of our walks.

“Packed up in the middle of the night,” Nikolai said. “He says he’ll be back in time for my birthday, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds some excuse to stay away.”

“The best gift he could give,” I sighed happily. I shot him a sidelong glance. “You should try not to look so smug, your Majesty,” I said. “It’s not very regal.”

“Surely I’m allowed some small dispensation for gloating,” he said with a laugh. He whistled that same off-key tune I remembered from the Volkvolny as we walked along. Then he cleared his throat. “Alina, not that you aren’t always the picture of loveliness, but. . .are you sleeping?”

I huffed a laugh. “Not much,” I admitted.

“Nightmares?”

I did still dream of the broken skiff, of people running from the darkness of the Fold, but that wasn’t what kept me up at night. “. . . Not exactly.” My eyes darted to where the Darkling kept pace with us, his lips curled into a knowing, if arrogant, smile.

“Ah,” said Nikolai. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I notice your friend has been throwing himself into his work lately. He’s much in demand.”

“He always has been,” I said, doing a poor job of keeping my voice light. “Everywhere we went. That's Mal.”

“Where did he learn to track? No one seems to be able to decide if it’s luck or skill.”

“He didn’t learn. He’s just always been able to do it.”

“How nice for him,” said Nikolai. “I’ve never been a natural at anything.”

I snorted. “You’re a spectacular actor, if nothing else” I said drily.

“Do you think so?” he asked. Then he leaned in and whispered, “I’m doing ‘humble’ right now.”

“If you have to point out which one you're doing, that means it needs more work,” I whispered back, leaning in. I was grateful for Nikolai’s cheery babble, but even more thankful when he let the subject drop.

* * * * *

It took David almost two more weeks to get his dishes operational, but when he was finally ready, I had the Grisha gather on the Little Palace roof to watch the demonstration. Tolya and Tamar were there, alert as always, scanning the crowd. Mal was nowhere to be seen. I’d stayed up the previous night in the common room, hoping to catch him and ask him to attend personally. It was long past one when I gave up and went to bed.

The two massive dishes were positioned on opposite sides of the roof, on the flat lip that extended between the domes of the eastern and western wings. They could be rotated through a system of pulleys, and each was manned by a Materialnik and a Squaller, outfitted in goggles to protect against the glare. I saw that Zoya and Paja had been teamed together, and Nadia had been paired with a Durast on the second dish.

 _Even if this is a total failure,_ I thought warily, _at least they’re working together._ Nothing like the threat of a fiery explosion to build camaraderie.

I took my place at the center of the roof, directly between the dishes.

With a flutter of irked nervousness, I saw that Nikolai had invited the captain of the palace guard to observe, along with two generals and several of the King’s advisers. I could have killed him. My power tended to show best in full darkness unless I really called on it, but that would blind everyone here. I’d asked David if we should schedule the demonstration for later in the evening, but he’d just shaken his head.

“If it works, it will be plenty dramatic. And I suppose that if it doesn’t work, it will be even more dramatic, what with the blast.”

“. . . David, I think you just made a joke.”

He frowned, utterly perplexed. “Did I?”

I laughed.

At Nikolai’s suggestion, David had chosen to take his cue from the Volkvolny and use a whistle to signal us. He gave a shrill blast, and the onlookers backed up against the domes, leaving us plenty of room. I raised my hands. David blew on the whistle again. I called the light.

It entered me in a golden torrent and burst from my hands in two steady, effortless beams. They struck the dishes, reflecting off them in a blinding glare. It was impressive, yes, but nothing spectacular.

Then David whistled again, and the dishes’ rotation was adjusted. The light bounced off their mirrored surfaces, multiplying upon itself and focusing into two blazing white shafts that pierced the early twilight.

An exclamation went up from the crowd as they shielded their eyes. I guess I didn’t have to worry about drama.

The beams sliced through the air, sending off waves of cascading brilliance and radiant heat, as if they were burning through the sky itself. David gave another short blast on the whistle, and the beams fused into a single molten blade of light. It was impossible to look directly at it. If the Cut was a knife in my hand, then this was a broadsword.

The dishes tilted, and the beam descended. The crowd gasped in astonishment as the light slashed through the edge of the woods below, leveling the treetops.

The dishes tilted further. The beam seared into the lakeshore and then into the lake itself. A wave of steam billowed into the air with an audible hiss, and for a moment, the entire surface of the lake seemed to boil. It reminded me of the first time I had called Rusalye’s power aboard the Volkvolny.

David gave a panicked blast on the whistle. Hastily, I dropped my hands, and the light vanished.

We ran to the edge of the roof and gaped at the sight before us.

It was as if someone had taken a razor and lopped off the top of the woods in a clean diagonal cut from the tip of the tree line to the shore. Where the beam had touched down, the ground was marked by a glowing trench that ran all the way to the waterline.

“It worked,” David said in a dazed voice. “It actually worked.”

There was a pause and then Zoya burst out laughing. Sergei joined her, then Marie and Nadia. Suddenly, they were all laughing and cheering, even moody Tolya, who swept a befuddled David up on his enormous shoulders. Soldiers were hugging Grisha, the King’s advisers were hugging the generals, Nikolai was dancing a begoggled Paja around the roof, and the captain of the guard caught me up in a giddy embrace as I laughed.

They whooped and screamed and bounced up and down, so that the whole palace seemed to shake. When the Darkling decided to march, the nichevo’ya would have quite a surprise waiting for them, and I felt oddly relieved that the phantom wasn’t here for the demonstration.

“Let’s go see it!” someone shouted, and they raced down the stairs like children at the sound of the school bell, giggling and careening off the walls. I was just as excited as anyone, maybe moreso, but I forced myself to move with a _little_ more restraint.

We charged through the Hall of the Golden Dome and flung open the doors, tumbling down the steps and outside. As everyone sprinted down to the lake, I skidded to a halt.

Mal was coming up the path from the wooded tunnel.

“Go on,” I said to Nikolai. “I’ll catch up.”

Mal watched the path as he approached, not meeting my gaze. As he drew closer, I saw that his eyes were bloodshot and there was an ugly bruise on his cheekbone.

“What happened?” I asked, lifting a hand toward his face to turn it so I could see. He ducked away, darting a glance at the servants who stood by the Little Palace doors.

I gritted my teeth. Still he worried about rumors.

“Ran into a bottle of kvas,” he said. “Is there something you need?”

“Didn’t you hear about the demonstration?”

“I wasn’t on duty.”

I pushed aside the painful jab in my chest. “We’re going down to the lake. Would you come?”

For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, then he shook his head. “I just came back to get some coin. There’s a card game going at the Grand Palace.”

The shard twisted. “A card game,” I repeated, voice half flat and half numb. “You may want to change, first,” I said with false lightness. “You look like you slept in your clothes.”

“Maybe because I did,” he said. He sounded so far away. “Is there anything else?”

I looked at him for a long moment, trying to find some crack in this new face he was wearing, but I found only stone. “. . .No,” I said, my voice speculative and almost a whisper. “I suppose not.”

“Moi soverenyi.” He executed a sharp bow and vaulted up the steps as if he couldn’t wait to be away from me.

I looked after him, my face cool, aware of the servant’s glances.

I took my time walking down to the lake, hoping that somehow the ache and confusion and _frustration_ in my heart would ease. What the hell did Mal think he was doing? My joy at the success on the roof had drained away, leaving me empty, like a well someone could shout down and hear nothing back but echoes.

By the shore, a group of Grisha were walking the length of the trench, calling out measurements in growing triumph and elation. It was nearly four feet wide and half as deep, a furrow of charred earth that stretched to the water’s edge. In the woods, felled treetops lay in a clutter of branches and bark. I reached out and ran my hand over one of the severed trunks. The wood was smooth, sliced cleanly across, and still warm to the touch. Two small fires had started, but the Tidemakers had quickly put them out.

Nikolai ordered food and champagne brought down to the lake, and we all spent the rest of the evening on the shore. The generals and advisers retired early, but the captain and some of his guard remained. They stripped off their jackets and shoes and waded into the lake, and it wasn’t long before everyone decided they didn’t care about wet clothes and plunged into the water, splashing and dunking each other, then organizing swim races to the little island. To no one’s surprise, a Tidemaker always won. I remained dry and distant on the shore and called out winners, glad for even the illusion of a little solitude.

Nikolai and his Squallers offered to take people up in the recently completed craft he’d dubbed the Kingfisher. At first they were wary, but after the first brave group came back flapping their arms and babbling about actually flying, everyone wanted a turn. I’d sworn my feet would never leave the ground again, but after seeing so many elated faces, I finally gave in and joined them. When we went up, it was just Nikolai, me, and two squallers to keep us aloft.

Maybe it was the champagne or just that I knew what to expect - or more likely Nikolai’s brilliant mind - but the Kingfisher seemed lighter and more graceful than the Hummingbird. Though I still gripped the cockpit with both hands, I felt my spirits lift as we rose smoothly into the air, and I was glad I had come.

I gathered my courage and looked down. The rolling grounds of the Grand Palace stretched out below us, crosscut by white gravel paths. I saw the roof of the Grisha greenhouse, the perfect circle of the double eagle fountain, the golden glint of the palace gates. Then we were soaring over the mansions and long, straight boulevards of the upper town. The streets were full of people celebrating the long days of Belyanoch. I saw jugglers and stiltwalkers on Gersky Prospect, dancers twirling on a lit stage in one of the parks. Music floated up from the boats on the canal.

I wanted to stay up there forever, surrounded by the flood of wind and free of the troubles that had seemed to stay behind on the ground, watching the tiny, perfect world beneath us. But eventually Nikolai turned the wheel and brought us back to the lake in a slow, descending arc. When we landed, I caught a suspicious little grin on his face, and wondered if he had hoped the flight would cheer me up. I wanted to curse at him and hug him at the same time.

The twilight deepened to a lush purple. The Inferni lit bonfires along the lakeshore, and somewhere in the dusk, someone tuned a balalaika. From the town below, I heard the whistle and clap of fireworks.

Nikolai and I sat at the end of the makeshift pier, our trousers rolled up, feet dangling over the side. The Kingfisher bobbed beside us, its white sails trimmed.

Nikolai kicked his foot through the water, sending up a little splash. “The dishes change everything,” he said. “If you can keep the nichevo’ya busy long enough, we’ll have time to find and target the Darkling.”

I flopped back on the dock, stretching my arms overhead and taking in the blooming violet of the night sky. When I turned my head, I could just make out the shape of the now-empty school building, its windows dark. I had servants go in and keep the dust away every week. It seemed only respectful, and somehow felt better, as if it were only waiting for children to come back from recess. I would have liked the students to see what the dishes could do, to give them that bit of hope, but then they would have been here to need it. At Keramzin, at least they could pretend that all of this was far away. The prospect of a battle was still frightening, especially when I thought of all the lives that would likely be lost. But at least we weren’t just sitting on a hilltop waiting to die.

“We may actually have a fighting chance,” I uttered in amazement.

“Try not to let the excitement overwhelm you, but I have more good news.”

I knew that tone of voice.

I groaned. “Please,” I begged. “Don’t say it. Please. Please just let me live in this happy little bubble for one night..”

“Vasily is back from Caryeva.”

“You are a monster and I hate you. Heartless pirate,” I grumbled.

“Privateer. Prince, technically. And you adore me.”

I made a disgusted sound. “I demand you apologize for that insult to my good name by doing the kind thing and drowning me immediately.”

“And suffer alone? I think not. Besides, you're far too pretty to murder horribly.”

“What about murdering beautifully? You could strangle me with the finest silks. Or,” I went on as if excited by an idea, “maybe for your birthday you can ask that he be fitted with a muzzle! It could be gem-encrusted, so as not to offend his royal sensibilities.” I suggested brightly. “I’ll have one of our best fabrikators to work on it.”

“But then we’d miss all his exciting stories about the summer auctions. You’re fascinated by the breeding superiority of the Ravkan racehorse, right?”

“Who wouldn't be?” I asked drily. “Just so you know, I’m screaming. Inside. Right now.”

Mal was supposed to be on duty for Nikolai’s birthday dinner the following night. I was giving serious thought to asking Tolya or Tamar to take his place. I could guess what was going on with him, but whatever it was in the end, being around me seemed to be the source of his self-destructive streak. It made me feel the need to be ill every time I thought about it. And if I was being honest, I didn’t think I could handle watching him stand stone-faced at attention all night, knowing it was the last place in the world he wanted to be, especially not with Vasily yammering away vainly.

“Be of good cheer,” said Nikolai. “Maybe he’ll propose again.”

I made a choking sound and shot upright. “How do you know about that?”

He gave a speculative hum. One I would have bet was fake. “If you recall, I did pretty much the same thing. I’m just surprised he hasn’t tried a second time. Yet.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Was there any particular reason you didn’t warn me?”

“And let you miss out? I'm not nearly so cruel.”

“Well, at least I'm not easy to get alone, apparently. Maybe I can stave it off a while longer. If he puts his slobbering mouth on my hand again, I’m going into the Materialki workshop to find a vat of acid to dunk it in.”

“You are,” Nikolai agreed. “Hard to get alone, I mean. Why do you think I walk you back from the Grand Palace after every meeting?”

“For my sparkling company, obviously.” I said with open sourness, annoyed by the twitch of disappointment I felt at his words. I flopped back down onto the dock. Nikolai was so good at making me forget that everything he did was calculated. I had begun to genuinely enjoy his company, and it had been so nice pretending he walked with me just to _walk with me_. Foolish, but pleasant. I could have pitched myself in the lake just to escape the voice singing in my head about what a fool I was.

“That too,” he said. He lifted his foot out of the water and scrutinized his wiggling toes. “He’ll get around to it again, eventually.”

“You’re terribly good at ruining temporary good moods, Nikolai. It’s not my favorite talent of yours.” I sighed with exaggerated woe. “But be careful, or you'll give me more incentive to insult him during our meetings. I’m sure I can turn him off of the idea with my boorish peasant ways. Perhaps I’ll attend the next meeting in dirty roughspun and bring something pickled to eat. Or I could always use the same excuse I used on the King. Perhaps they could bond over it.”

His eyebrows shot up.

I pushed aside a feeling of guilt and unease. There was no way Nikolai didn’t know of his father's reputation, and it had happened so long ago that treating it seriously felt like giving it far more consideration than it deserved. But when I saw the look on his face, I hurried to backpedal.

“Kidding,” I said. “Bad joke. I can’t get ten out of ten all the time.”

He looked at me seriously. “Tell me.”

I laughed as best I could. “There's nothing to tell, Nikolai. Not _all_ my quips can be tasteful and flawlessly executed.”

From the way he looked at me, I knew he didn't believe it.

I sighed. “He, er, _asked,_ as he does, and I told him that if I so much as kissed a man my powers would suffer for it. To go to bed with someone,” I said in dire tones, “well, that would cost me my power all together. I’m no normal Grisha after all.” I paused. “I have wondered what he’s been making of the rumors of our involvement. Maybe he supposes the plan is to wait until after I save everyone from the Fold and Fjerda and the Shu Han and socks with holes in the toes.”

“. . . I’m sorry, Alina,” he said. It was the most serious I’d ever heard him.

I waved a hand. “It was a long time ago now. Used to happen all the time in the army until word got around about how loose I was with kicks to the groin.” _And I fared better than most,_ I didn’t add. “So how _does_ one say no to a prince, anyway?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

He looked at me so long that I began to grow uncomfortable. But finally, he went back to contemplating his foot. “You’ve managed it before. Are you so sure you want to?”

I nearly choked. “You can’t be serious. Are you out of your mind?”

Nikolai shifted uncomfortably. “Well, he is first in line for the throne. Of pure royal stock, and all that.”

“. . . And here I had come under the impression that you _weren’t_ a complete fool. No offense Nikolai, but I'm not a fan of that particular stock. And I'm not you. If I marry, it won't be for status or power. And certainly not to a prat like Vasily. Saints, I'd light him on fire at the altar for fear of the kiss. I wouldn’t go within a thousand yards of marrying him if he had a pet firebird named Ludmilla.”

I peered at him surreptitiously. “You said the gossip about your bloodlines didn’t bother you.”

“I may not have been completely honest about that.”

“You. . . Nikolai, you were less than truthful?” I clutched a hand to my chest, painting a broken expression on my face. “I’m shocked! Shocked and horrified and wounded and I fear I may never truly recover.”

He laughed. “I guess it’s easy to say it doesn’t matter when I’m away from court. But no one here seems to want to let me forget, especially my brother.”

I interrupted him. “Yes, well, your brother is a complete shit who is a glorified infant and has to throw any fodder within reach under his weak ego. He picks at you because he knows you’re a thousand times better than he is in literally every way. There would be no need to be threatened by an _inferior_ specimen, would there?”

He shrugged, though a weak smile passed over his lips. “It’s always been this way. There were rumors about me even before I was born. It’s why my mother never calls me Sobachka. She says it makes me sound like a mongrel.”

My heart gave a little pang at that. I’d been called plenty of names growing up.

“Well I like mongrels,” I said, rising onto my elbows. “They’re scrappy. And loyal. And they have cute floppy ears.”

“My ears are very dignified.”

I nodded and agreed with an absent hum. I ran my finger over one of the pier’s sleek planks, then pushed myself up to sit next to him. We were so close our sides pressed together. “. . .Is that why you stayed away so long? What pushed you to became become Sturmhond?”

“I don’t know if there’s just one reason. I guess I never felt like I belonged here, so I tried to make a place where I could belong.”

“I never felt like I fit in anywhere either,” I admitted. Except with Mal. I pushed the thought away.

I frowned. “You know what I really hate about you?” I said vehemently.

He blinked, startled. “No.”

“You always say the right thing.”

“And you hate that?”

“Very much. I’ve seen the way you change personas, Nikolai. You’re always what's needed or wanted, and you slip between masks like a fish swims through water. I don't know which one is talking to me at any given time, and I always have to wonder how much of what I’m getting is real.

“You want me to marry you, but I honestly don't even know which man has proposed. Maybe you really never felt like you belonged. Or maybe you just know that’s the right thing to say because you're talking to a poor, lonely orphan girl and you want her to like you more.”

“So you do like me?”

I rolled my eyes. “During the rare moments when I don’t want to stab you or I can pretend I don’t have to question your motives, yes. I seem to have come to find you rather agreeable.”

“It’s a start,” he said, a wide grin spreading over his face.

I laughed. No it isn’t.”

He turned to me and his face went serious. In the half-light, his hazel eyes looked like chips of amber.

“I’m a privateer, Alina,” he said quietly. “I’ll take whatever I can get.”

I was suddenly very aware of his shoulder resting against mine, the press of his thigh. The air felt warm and smelled sweet with the scent of summer and woodsmoke.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, his voice low.

“I wouldn't recommend it,” I replied, my own voice coming out much more breathless than I intended. “It didn’t end well last time.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “I want to try it again.”

“. . .Oh,” I breathed. Then, voice barely a whisper, “Good to have that cleared up.” His mouth was inches from mine. My heart leapt into a half-panicked gallop - but only half.

It was so easy with him, and the same part of me that felt like Mal and I were a piece of fabric that was slowly being worn and ripped no matter how tightly I held on. I felt no such thing around Nikolai. He didn’t doubt, not about what he wanted. _But this is Nikolai,_ I reminded myself. _Pure calculation._

Of their own accord, my eyes slipped downward to stare at Nikolai's lips. I was Mal's. Wasn’t I? Was I? My pride and anger were still smarting from his rejection and his foolish, petulant behavior, the way he was trying to tear a hole in himself even while he refused me--the very reason he was here in the first place. The thought of him leaving broke something in me, but I wasn’t sure why he was still here, either.

“I. . . might not hit you this time,” I breathed, my eyes going back up to his. “Not as hard, anyway.”

Something passed over his eyes and he leaned in. His lips came so close to mine that I felt them, slight and bare as a soft breeze. But abruptly he stopped, pulled back.

“I want to kiss you,” Nikolai repeated, and my eyes snapped open to meet his again. “But I won’t. Not until you’re thinking of me instead of trying to forget him.”

I jerked backwards, feeling flushed and embarrassed and rejected and caught completely off guard.

“Alina—”

I slammed my hands into him and shoved him right off the pier and into the lake. Then I pulled my feet up out of the water with a splash and lurched upward to stand.

Grand Duke Lantsov came up sputtering.

“At least now I know you don’t always say the right thing,” I said with a glacial smile.

I snatched up my shoes and practically stomped down the pier to the sound of him hauling himself from the water.

* * * * *

I stayed well clear of the celebratory bonfires as I strode around the lakeshore. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone, and didn't have the presence of mind to concentrate enough to keep myself from sight.

What had I expected from Nikolai? What had I _wanted_ from him? Distraction? Flirtation? Something to shake the ache in my heart free? Maybe I’d just wanted some way to forget Mal for even a moment. Or maybe I was so desperate to feel connected to anyone that I would settle for a false kiss from an untrustworthy man.

It seemed uncomfortably familiar. I dashed the thought from my head and moved further along the lakeside.

The idea of tomorrow night’s birthday dinner filled me with dread. Perhaps I could make some excuse, I considered as I slowly walked across the grounds. I could send a nice note to the Grand Palace sealed with wax and emblazoned with the Sun Summoner’s official seal:

_To Their Most Royal Majesties, the King and Queen of Ravka:_

_It is with a sad heart that I must proffer my regrets and inform you that I will be unable to attend the festivities_ _celebrating the birth of Prince Nikolai Lantsov, Grand Duke of Udova._

_Unfortunate circumstances have arisen, namely that my best friend has turned into a confused ass who won’t listen to me and doesn’t trust that I love him, and your son didn’t kiss me, but I seem to wish he had. Or hadn’t. Or I’m still not sure what I wish, but there’s a very good chance that if I’m forced to sit through his overstuffed birthday dinner, I’ll end up sobbing into my cake or stabbing someone with a salad fork._

_With best wishes on this most happy of occasions,_

_Alina Starkov,  
Chief Dupe and Seniormost Idiot of the Second Army of Ravka, may the Saints save us all_

When I reached my chambers, Tamar was reading in the common room. She looked up when I entered, but my mood must have shown on my face, because she didn’t say a word or crack a smile in greeting.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I propped myself up in bed with one of the books I’d taken from the library:, an old travel guide that listed Ravka’s famous monuments. I had the barest hope that it would point me toward the arch.

I tried to focus, but I found myself reading the same sentence again and again. My head was muzzy with champagne, and my feet still felt cold and waterlogged from the lake. Mal might be back from his card game. If I knocked on his door and he answered, what would I say?

I tossed the book aside. I didn’t know what to say to Mal. Worse, I didn’t know what there was to say at all. I never did these days. But maybe I could just start with the truth: that I was lost and confused, and maybe losing my mind, that I scared myself sometimes, and that I missed him so much it was like physical pain.

I needed to at least try to heal the rift between us before it was completely beyond repair. No matter what he thought of me afterward, it couldn’t get much worse. I could survive another rejection, but I couldn’t bear the thought that I had fallen short of trying everything.

I peeked into the common room.

“Is Mal in your barracks?” I asked Tamar.

She shook her head.

I swallowed my pride and asked, “And do you know where he went?”

Tamar looked at me for a long moment, then sighed. “Get your shoes. I’ll take you to him.”

I canted my head at her reaction. “Where is he?”

“The stables.”

Unsettled, I ducked back into my bedroom and quickly pulled on my shoes. I followed Tamar out of the Little Palace and across the lawns.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Tamar asked.

“...Well when you put it like that,” I said grimly. Whatever she had to show me, I knew I wasn’t going to like it. But I refused to just go back to my room and bury my head under the covers. “Can I be seen?”

She nodded. “It should be fine. There will be a crowd.”

“A crowd,” I muttered. “Encouraging.” I peered at her, but she didn't say any more.

We made our way down the gentle slope that led past the banya. Horses whinnied in the paddocks. The stables were dark, but the training rooms were ablaze with light. I heard shouting.

The largest training room was little more than a barn with a dirt floor, its walls covered in every weapon imaginable. Usually, it was where Botkin doled out punishment to Grisha students and put them through their drills. But tonight it was crowded with people, mostly soldiers, some Grisha, even a few servants. They were all shouting and cheering, jostling and jockeying to try to get a better look at whatever was happening at the center of the room.

Unnoticed, Tamar and I worked our way through the crush of bodies. That I was not in my glittering kefta helped. I glimpsed two royal trackers, several members of Nikolai’s regiment, a group of Corporalki, and Zoya, who was screaming and clapping with the rest of them.

I’d almost reached the front of the crowd when I caught sight of a Squaller, fists raised, chest bare, stalking his way around the circle the onlookers had formed. Eskil, I remembered, one of the Grisha who had been traveling with Fedyor. He was Fjerdan and he looked it—blue eyes, white-blond hair, tall and broad enough that he completely blocked my view.

 _It’s not too late,_ I thought with a shiver of dread. _You can still turn around and pretend you were never here._

I stayed rooted to the spot. I knew what I would see, but it was still a shock when Eskil moved aside and I got my first glimpse of Mal. Like the Squaller, he was stripped to the waist, his muscled torso streaked with dirt and sweat. There were bruises on his knuckles. A trickle of blood coursed down his cheek from a cut below his eye, though he didn't seem to notice.

The Squaller lunged. Mal blocked the first punch, but the next caught him beneath the kidneys. He grunted, dropped his elbow, and swung hard at the Squaller’s jaw.

Eskil bobbed out of Mal’s range and scooped his arm through the air in a swooping arc. With a stab of panic, I realized he was summoning. I tried to lunge forward, but Tamar grabbed my arm and shook her head. She leaned in so I could hear her. “Just watch.”

The gust rustled my hair, and in the next second, Mal was blown off his feet by Etherealki wind. Eskil threw out his other arm, and Mal’s body shot upward, slamming into the roof of the barn. He hung there for a moment, pinned to the wooden beams by the Grisha’s power. Then Eskil let him drop. He crashed to the dirt floor with bone-rattling force.

“No!” Frantic, I tried to call a stop to the fight, but the sound was lost in the roar of the crowd. One of the Corporalki bellowed encouragement at Eskil while another was shouting at Mal to get up.

I shoved forward, light already blooming in my hands, but Tamar caught me again. I rounded on her, furious.

“He doesn’t want your help,” she said, shouting to be heard over the din of the crowd.

“I don’t care,” I yelled. “These aren't the rules here, and this isn’t a fair fight!”

“Botkin’s rules don’t apply after dark. Mal’s in the middle of a fight, not a lesson.”

I yanked away from her. Better Mal angry and embarrassed than Mal injured beyond repair. But I saw the determination and focus on his face, and I knew he wanted to be here. I knew he had been here before, and somehow, I stopped myself.

Mal was on his hands and knees, trying to get to his feet. I was amazed he could even move after the Squaller’s attack. Eskil raised his hands again. The air billowed up in a flurry of dust. I clenched my fists tight. But this time, Mal rolled, dodging the current and launching to his feet with surprising speed. I froze, just feet away behind the front row of spectators.

Eskil scowled and scanned the perimeter, considering his options. I knew what he was weighing. He couldn’t just let loose without risking knocking us all down, and maybe part of the stables too. I waited, more tense than I ever remembered being, even when the Darkling had been chasing us in Cofton.

Mal was breathing hard, bent at the waist, hands resting on his thighs. He’d probably cracked at least one rib. He was lucky he hadn’t broken his spine. He forced himself upright, hissing at the pain. He rolled his shoulders, cursed, spat blood. Then, to my horror, he curled his fingers and beckoned the Squaller forward. A cheer went up from the crowd.

“No,” I breathed. “You idiot, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“He’ll be fine,” Tamar said. “I’ve seen him take worse.”

“You've what?” I snapped.

“He fights here almost every night when he’s sober enough. Sometimes when he’s not.”

I gaped at her, too angry for words. “And no one thought to tell me about this, why?”

Tamar shrugged. “He’s actually pretty good.”

I remembered all the mornings he’d appeared with bruises and scrapes. What was he trying to prove? I remembered my careless words as we’d returned from the fortune-telling party. _I don’t want the burden of an army of helpless otkazat’sya._

I wished I could take them back.

I let my hands fall to my sides. If this was how Mal wanted to deal with things. . . . I could at least let him finish one more fight. But if this was how he thought he _had_ to deal with things, then we had an even bigger problem than I had believed.

The Squaller feinted left, then raised his hands for another attack. Wind blew through the circle, and I saw Mal’s feet lose contact with the floor. I gritted my teeth, sure I was about to see him tossed against the nearest wall. But at the last second, he spun, wrenching away from the blast of air and charging the startled Squaller.

Eskil let out a loud grunt as Mal clamped his arms around him, keeping the Grisha’s limbs pinned so that he couldn’t summon his power. The big Fjerdan snarled, muscles straining, teeth bared as he tried to break Mal’s hold.

I knew it must have cost him, but Mal tightened his grip. He shifted, then drove his forehead into Eskil’s nose with a nauseating crunch. Before I could blink, he’d released Eskil and hammered a flurry of punches into the Squaller’s gut and sides.

Eskil hunched over, trying to protect himself, struggling for breath as blood gushed over his open mouth. Mal pivoted and delivered a brutal kick to the back of the Squaller’s legs. Eskil fell to his knees, swaying, but still somehow upright.

Mal backed away, surveying his work. The crowd was whooping and stomping, their screams rising to a frenzy, but Mal’s wary eyes were trained on the kneeling Squaller.

He studied his opponent, then dropped his fists. “Go on,” he said to the Grisha. The look on his face sent a chill through me. There was cold challenge there and a kind of grim satisfaction. It was an expression I had never thought to see on that face. What was he seeing when he looked at Eskil on his knees?

Eskil’s eyes were glassy. With an effort, the Grisha lifted his palms. The barest breeze fluttered toward Mal. A chorus of boos rose from the crowd.

Mal let it wash over him, then stepped forward. Eskil’s weak gust faltered. Mal planted his hand in the center of the Squaller’s chest and gave a single, disdainful shove.

Eskil toppled. His big body hit the ground, and he curled in on himself, moaning.

Jeers and elated shrieks erupted all around us. A gleeful soldier grabbed Mal’s wrist and lifted it over his head in triumph as money began to change hands.

The crowd surged toward Mal, jostling my shoulders and sides as they moved, but leaving me behind them. Everybody was talking at once while I stayed behind, eyes fixed numbly on his face. People slapped him on the back, jamming money into his palms. Then Zoya appeared in front of him. She flung her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his. I saw him go rigid.

A rushing sound filled my ears, drowning out the noise of the crowd. I felt the blood leave my face and a scraping sort of crush in my chest. It was as if time had stopped.

 _Push her away,_ I said silently. _**Push her away.**_

And for a moment, I thought he might. But then his arms closed around her, and he kissed her back enthusiastically as the crowd hooted and cheered.

The bottom fell out of my stomach. It was like putting a foot wrong on a frozen creek, the crack of ice, the sudden drop, the knowledge that there was nothing beneath but dark water. I put a hand to stomach. A tear fell from my wide eyes and rolled down my cheek, past my open mouth.

He pulled away from her, grinning, his cheek still bloodied, and that was when his eyes met mine. His face went white.

Zoya followed his gaze and lifted a defiant brow when she saw me.

In that moment, I wanted to kill her. My face contorted and my fist clenched, ready to throw my hand up into the arc of the Cut. I could already feel the power gathered around me, there before I even had to call it.

The need to flee that impulse before I had a chance to act on it unstuck my feet from the ground. I turned and headed toward the open doors as fast as I could without calling attention to myself. Tamar fell into step beside me.

“Alina,” she said, and reached out with a hand.

 _“Do not touch me,”_ I spat.

I broke away from her and bent the light away from myself. I had to get outside, had to get away from everyone, because I feared I would burn the place to the ground with everyone inside otherwise. Tears were beginning to blur my vision, and I didn’t know if they were from anger or shock or hurt. I wasn’t sure if they were for the kiss or what had gone before it, but I wouldn’t let them fall either way.

I burst from the stables and into the half-light. The air was warm and thick. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I strode away from the well-lit path by the paddocks and made for the shelter of the birchwood grove. When I reached the treeline, I bent double, one hand pressed hard into my sternum, trying to remember how to breathe.

“Alina,” Mal said.

I whipped around. His eyes were scanning the treeline.

I turned and headed into the trees, my pace so fast I was almost running. I could smell the hot springs that fed the banya, the sharp scent of birch leaves beneath my feet. My throat ached. Behind me, he kept pace, despite the injuries he'd received.

“Damnit, Alina I know you're there, would you please stop?”

I tensed, then without so much as a thought, let myself come back into view as I whirled around and hit him right across the jaw as hard as I could.

His head snapped to the side and he had to take a step out to keep from stumbling. He stayed like that a moment, then spit, a dark pink spot on the snow.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I screeched.

I watched him sag as if all the energy went out of him. “Alina--”

“No, you're going to listen,” I snapped. “For once, I'm going to talk and you're going to _listen, Mal.”_

“All I've done is listen!”

“Bullshit! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said to you since Nikolai proposed outside of the Fold! You didn't listen when I told you he wasn't an issue, you didn't listen when I told you there was no one else, or when I told you that what happened in my room had _nothing to do with you._

“I don’t understand why you feel inadequate, but it isn’t my fault! I’m here, I love you, I want to be with you. Why isn’t that enough?” I shouted, desperate for something to make sense. All those years of not existing to him, and now that we were finally together, he was the one who was insecure. We were in a shitty situation and he was miserable. So what? My problems were all different than his, but they were hardly better. And all of it was temporary. We were finally together like we always should have been. Why wasn't that enough for him?

“Why is it that the person who was _never_ good enough for you is too good for you now, so much so that she wants anyone who _you_ think is better?

“You've put so much energy into manufacturing this lie, this insecurity that I can't even understand, it's like you were just waiting for me to say something or do something, any tiny thing, that would prove to you that you'd been right the whole time, that I was going to leave you, that you weren’t good enough,” I sputtered. “. . . Saints, I can't even pretend to know what.”

“I don’t understand it, but I respected it, because it was you. I thought, “Give us enough time, we can work through it. But this? _This_ is what you do?” I jerked a hand up to point at the barn in the distance. “With _Zoya?_ The one person, Mal, the _one person_ who you knew would hurt me more than anyone or anything else possibly could. You think I haven’t had a chance to kiss other people? Even after you walked out on me?” I challenged. “Now guess how many of us actually did it! My entire life I've been in love with you, and you don't have the decency, the courage, the honor to _push her away_ until you can tell me it’s over.

“I think I finally understand how you felt when you said it seemed like I was becoming a different person. Because this man?” I waved at him. “I have no idea who he is. And Saints take me, I'm pretty sure I can't stand him. That I don't want to be within a hundred miles of him,” I spat.

I laughed harshly. “You’ve been so worried that something was going to come between us, that something _was_ coming between us. It turns out you were right, Mal, there was _one thing,_ and it wasn’t rules or rumors or me being too busy. If you want to rail against it and hate it and blame it, find a mirror!” I yelled.

“I'm proud of you,” the cool voice whispered from too close. I hadn’t even realized the nichevo’ya bite had been tugging until he spoke.

“Leave me alone,” I hissed.

A broken look crossed Mal’s face.

“Not you,” I snapped, which only added to the swamp of tormented emotions I saw. _“Hell.”_

“I have been here the whole time,” I breathed, “watching _you_ take yourself away and make up reason after reason why we were being pulled apart. You’re mad at me, but I’ve been here. Do you even know what you want?”

He opened his mouth and started to speak, then closed it. He closed his eyes. “Saints,” he finally breathed. “I wish we had never come here.”

“Well, we did! And you seem to be faring well, all things told! Liquor to drink, money to lose, fights to be had, your girlfriend to kiss behind my back.” I felt like a child for saying that. I was too angry to care. “Besides Mal, let’s be honest, staying away from this place wouldn’t have fixed things. You started turning away from me the second I put this on.” I jabbed up the wrist that was circled by Rusalye’s shimmering scales.

“Because it changed you, Alina! I don’t even think you see it half the time! That wasn’t supposed to happen back there,” he couldn’t or wouldn’t say ‘kiss’ or ‘Zoya,’ it seemed, “but at least she doesn’t flinch when I touch her! You don’t want me, so why do you care if she does?”

“What is the matter with you?” I screeched, so exasperated over this same, single argument that a glow that would have been visible above the tree line exploded outward from me. Mal turned away and covered his eyes with his arm until it settled down on its own. I forced what was left away. It took everything I had and felt like I was trying to hold up twice my own weight, but I felt like this would be the worst possible time to illustrate my otherness, which was probably the real reason behind all of this. “You're the only one I've ever wanted!”

He sneered. “Now you know that isn't true.”

The glow forced itself back into existence with a force that made me shudder, and this time, I wasn’t able to shove all of it back down.

“I have never been to bed with anyone, Malyen. _In my life,”_ I enunciated, deadly quiet in every tight syllable. I blushed at the admission, which only made me angrier, but I wasn't going to apologize for it--not even to myself.

That wiped the look off his face. It went slack and paled, and I felt a vicious stab of satisfaction. The Darkling froze.

“Given enough time, that would have changed,” I said, my voice low and angry. I walked toward him as I spoke. “The _Darkling_ likely would have changed it. Yes, I felt a connection to him. Yes, I wanted him. But I turned him down. _Twice,”_ I hissed savagely.

His image’s face went from arrogantly satisfied and triumphant to deeply unamused.

“I tried,” I went on. “I let you and everyone else think I succeeded, because I couldn't stand the humiliation of pining after someone who had barely known I existed for over a decade. Because I was afraid that if you found out, I'd lose you,” my voice nearly broke, and it was so quiet and cold and unlike myself that it almost scared me. “That everything I never was, everything I stopped myself from being so I could stay close enough to keep even what frail friendship we had remaining would be for nothing, and that meant I would lose everything.

“I _tried.”_ I stopped, inches from him, my face tilted up to meet his eyes. “And I couldn't. Because every time, with every person, it felt like I was betraying someone who barely looked at me and tumbled every pretty girl he came across without a second thought.”

Mal looked like he might be ill at any moment.

“So tell me again how I've sown my seeds wide, Mal. Tell me how I don't want you. Tell me how I want every man you feel threatened by instead,” I spat. “Tell me how I want a prince, or a monster. Tell me how I want a throne instead of just to be wanted and had by the only person who has ever mattered to me.” Cold anger was rising in my tone again. “Tell me how you know what I want so much better than I do,” I sneered.

His lips parted, but no words came.

“I'm _sorry_ that I am not just some normal girl who can run away and be with you without a care. I told you I held my power in check. Have you guessed why? I buried a piece of myself for most of my life so I wouldn't be found, so I could stay with you. I made myself weak and I made myself sick because _nothing_ was worth losing you. You're my home, you idiot! But it didn’t last, and I got found out, and now I don't live in a world where I can just keep hiding and pretending.”

The Darkling stood between us, a few paces back. Half the time, his eyes were riveted on Mal in disdain and a cold sort of hatred. Half the time they were on me and all I could see was watchfulness. Sometimes it was a hungry, predatory sort of look.

“I'm the only real weapon against the army of living shadows that the Darkling is coming with. If I leave, I as good as murder thousands of people myself. Tens of thousands. I couldn't live with that kind of blood on my hands. You saw me after the skiff. How long did it take me to stop screaming in my sleep over the two dozen or so people I fed to the volcra that day?

“I know you didn't want to come here, _Saints_ do I know it, and I'm not going to pretend like I didn't want you with me. But I didn't force you. You have had the option of leaving every day, and I've told you over and over that we just have to make it until he's dead and the Fold is gone, but you keep self-destructing! You keep finding things to be jealous of that _aren't there._ I tried to tell you that I didn't flinch because of you that night, but you were so determined to find a problem, something in me that was secretly pining for someone else, that you wouldn't listen. And _that_ is why I said it was time for you to really listen to me. To _hear_ me.

“I don't see Nikolai, you idiot. I don't see anyone but you. But you drink yourself into a stupor, chasing phantoms that aren't there and trying to prove yourself when the only person who doubts you that matters, is you.”

The Darkling opened his mouth to speak, but I shot a glare at it and warned quietly, through half-closed lips, “Don't you dare.”

Before Mal could ask, I went on as if there had been no interruption. “You gamble, you get into fights and you--” I bit my tongue, unwilling to revisit what I'd seen in the stable. “I don't want you with her, Mal. I don't want you with anyone but me, ever. And I don't want you anywhere but standing next to me, _with_ me, for as long as we're alive. Please, please finally _hear me,”_ I begged.

Mal looked at me for so long in silence that I wanted to shout for him to say something. Anything. He looked at me for so long that his breathing returned to normal and mine almost did. I waited, clenching my fists, crossing and uncrossing my arms, holding his gaze as his eyes searched mine. I waited until I could shove, with all my might, the glow around me back under my skin. I didn't know what he was looking for, but I prayed he would find it. Whatever was happening between us lately, we couldn't keep it up. I knew I couldn't. And if it was going to end, this may be the place where it happened.

Suddenly, he paced away from me, shoving his hands through his hair. The movement made him wince. His fingers tested the flesh at his side. I wanted to bark at him to go find a Healer. I wanted to jab my fist into the break and make it worse.

He stopped, facing away from me. “Is all of that true?” He asked, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it.

“Of course it's true, you dullard! I honestly don't understand how you can't know what you are to me, right down to your stupid, stubborn, idiot bones.”

He huffed a breath. “I thought you were the stubborn one,” he said, his voice quiet and so, so tired.

I felt a pang of hope through the sharp splinter in my chest.

“Apparently I'm not the sole owner of that one, and you're susceptible to bad influences. I think it's your trusting nature,” I said drily.

He turned back to me and walked forward, stopping just close enough to touch. “You really don't want Nikolai?”

I nearly growled as I cast my eyes up. “For the love of every Saint, Mal, is there _anything_ I can say to get you to actually believe me when I say 'no?' For the hundredth time? If I knew any other languages, I'd try saying it in them to see if one would take!”

Oddly, I felt that the Darkling, still standing silent audience, wanted to give me a few suggestions. I doubted that any of them would be helpful.

“I don't know,” Mal said.

“Idiot.”

“You know you've called me an idiot four times in the last two minutes.”

“Maybe you should stop being such an idiot if you don't like being called one,” I replied in a scathing tone. “And it's only three now. Technically one of them was referring to your bones. And the other one was 'dullard.'”

“. . . I don't want to lose you, Alina,” he said sincerely. “But I feel you slipping away. And I don't know how to hold on.”

I shook my head and took a step forward to close the distance between us. “That's your problem. I am _right. Here._ Where I always was, whether you saw me or wanted me or not. Now you're here, _you have me,”_ I enunciated carefully. “I'm not going anywhere.

“You've got good, strong hands, Mal.” I took one of them in mine and looked down at the battered knuckles. “They’re not so good after you've been taking out your frustration on other peoples’ faces, but still.” I looked into his eyes and held them so he'd know I meant what I was about to say. “Please have faith in them. Please have faith in _me._ The only way you will ever lose me is by walking away.”

He looked down at me, mournful, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what he had to say next.

“Alina. . . when I asked you before, about taking the antlers off.”

I stiffened, and a smile curled on the Darkling’s lips. My eyes tightened in an effort not to turn a glare on him, and Mal saw it and misinterpreted it.

He huffed and took a step back.

“Mal--” I said, tone half placating, half warning.

“Would you choose your power over me, Alina?”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I couldn’t make my mouth form words.

“As I said,” the Darkling said, his voice cold and quiet and final. Satisfied.

Without a thought I turned with a growl, flung my arm up, and arced it down in the Cut. He was gone, and he did not rematerialize.

But again, Mal assumed it was a reaction to him. He took another step back. He didn’t look angry, he looked hurt and broken and worst of all, I thought he looked a little afraid.

I sighed and held my hands up to placate him. “Again, not what it seemed like.” I took a deep breath to steady myself. “I _can’t_ take the antlers off. Or the scales. I talked to David about it a while ago, and he told me that if I try, something would happen that at best would leave the world shattered. At worst it would end it. These amplifiers may sit on the outside of me, but they’re as much a part of me as my heart or lungs.”

His face went oddly lifeless, and that scared me more than anything so far.

“People change, Mal,” I said. “We have. We grew up with each other. This has always been a part of me, it’s just. . . on the outside now. I’m still Alina.” My voice was a whisper by the end.

He looked at me for a long moment, like he was searching for something again. This time, I saw the moment when he didn’t find it, and I felt something in myself crack. He let his eyes slip closed.

“. . . Let’s go,” Mal said at last, turning away from me and starting to walk.

“Where?” I asked. My voice sounded dead.

“Back to the Little Palace. I’m not going to leave you in the woods.” His voice was as lifeless as mine.

I looked at his back. “. . . No. I need some air. And you need a Healer. I'd tell you to go see one, but we both know you'd ignore me just to be stubborn.” I tried to make my voice light, but it only rang hollow.

“Alina--”

“No, Mal,” I said firmly. “I’m a big girl, I can look after myself. If you want company,” I said, and bitterness was leeching into my voice, “go find Zoya.”

I scoffed. “Its been almost a year, and after everything we've been through together, after everything you said,” my voice broke on the word, and I hated it, “it turns out we haven't moved at all. It's still just you, walking away. Choosing someone else, something else. So go. Just go.” I tasted bile as the words came up. “Go back to having what you want and being with who you want, when you want. Go back to a smooth life full of acclaim and conquests and popularity and joking with your friends. I'll find a way to get you back into the army with honors if that's what you want. I won’t hold you back anymore.”

He swiped an angry hand through his hair. He looked lost, like he wanted to yell and hit something else. He strode forward and gripped me too hard by the shoulders. The look in his eyes was wild as he held me there. “I don’t want that. I want _you._ I want Alina.”

“. . .Then let’s leave,” I said recklessly. “We'll pack a bag and we'll go tonight, right now if you want. We can forget we ever saw this place. We’ll find somewhere too far for the war to reach, and too far for the Darkling to find.”

He let out a bitter bark of laughter and let go of me. “Do you know how much I want that? To be with you without rank or walls or anything between us? Just to be common again together?” He shook his head. “But you won’t do it, Alina."

I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off.

“Don’t kid yourself.” He sounded broken and resigned. “Even if we left, you’d just find a way back. And if you didn't, it would kill you. Everything you said before, about your nightmares and the way you carry the innocent people you hurt with you, it’s all still true. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself. An I’d end up losing you all the same.”

“I. . . .” The realization dawned on me that he was right, and I couldn’t deny it. “People will die, Mal. The world will shatter under his heel. I'm the only person who can stop it.” I said wetly, begging him to understand.

He looked at me a long moment. “Are you?”

I sputtered. “Aren't I?” I yelled. “Who else? It always comes back to me with him! Should I leave and trust that someone else is going to kill the one person who will make sure we never get a moment's peace as long as we live? Who would do anything to put a knife in your heart and twist it? I don’t know how to fix this,” I finished desperate.

“You can’t fix it!” he shouted. He stalked away and started pacing. “You’re so wound around all of this--” He stopped suddenly and clenched his jaw. “This is the way it is,” he said firmly. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you were meant to be a queen and I’m not meant to be anything at all?”

“Finally, he understands,” the Darkling said quietly. I had no idea when he had come back. I felt like I was a rope that was about to snap.

I recoiled. “I’d burn half the country in a fit of pique if I were queen, and _you_ have never been nothing! What is wrong with you? You are bright and talented and people love you everywhere you go. You’re more than I’ll ever be! Grisha power is nothing next to what you can do.”

He laughed, and it was a hard, bitter sound. It reminded me of the Mal I had met the night of the winter fete so many months ago. “I'm a commoner, Alina. I am nothing in this world, I'm not even a tracker anymore.”

“You've never been nothing.” I said, my voice steel.

He stalked toward me, the boughs of the trees making strange shifting shadows across his face in the twilight.

“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he said. “I’m not a prince, and I’m sure as hell not a Saint. So what am I, Alina?”

“Why do you have to be anything?” I asked weakly. “You’re Mal! I-- You're. . . .”

 _“What am I?”_ he whispered.

He was close to me now. The scent I knew so well, that dark green scent of the meadow, was lost beneath the smell of sweat and blood, and it was like a drug.

“Am I your guardian?” he asked.

I felt more than heard the Darkling scoff.

Mal ran his hand slowly down my arm, from shoulder to fingertips, and my lids fluttered.

“Your friend?”

“Not for some time,” the Darkling said quietly. “And you hardly deserve her.” I clenched my fists, one hand crushing around Mal’s fingers.

His left hand skimmed down my other arm.

“Your servant?”

I could feel Mal's his breath on my lips. I closed my eyes, wanting to hear only Mal, see and feel only him. My heart thundered in my ears.

“Tell me what I am.”

I floundered, trying to find the words, but finally opened my eyes. “Everything,” I whispered, feeling the breath of my words fan across his face. “You're everything, Mal.”

He pulled me against his body so gently, so softly, his hand circling my wrist.

When his fingers closed, a sharp jolt rocked through me, buckling my knees and making both of us cry out. The world tilted and I gasped. Mal dropped my hand as if he’d been burned.

He backed away from me, stunned. “What the fuck was that?” He asked sharply.

I tried to blink away the dizziness.

“What was that?” he said again.

“I don’t know.” I said, stunned. I looked down at my wrist. Rusalye’s scales twinkled back at me. My fingers still tingled.

A humorless smile twisted his lips. “It’s never easy with us, is it?”

I closed my eyes and a weary breath escaped me. “Not lately. And maybe it never will be. Maybe it won’t be easy, or sweet, or comfortable with me. Because you were right, I can’t just leave. I can’t abandon everyone. Maybe we. . . maybe _I_ don't get that life anymore. I don't know.

“I can’t pretend that this isn’t who I am, because if I do, more people will get hurt and more people will die. And worse than that, Mal, Saints help me but worse than that is that I don't think I can go back to pretending to be less than I am. I think it would kill something in me that I can't stand to lose and I would be. . . there wouldn’t be anything left of me worth saving.

“I don't think I can ever just be Alina, the one you knew, again. I think that girl, the girl who loved you her whole life, who you didn't see standing right next to you. . . I think she’s gone, Mal.”

“I want her back,” he said fiercely.

I felt pride and smug satisfaction from the Darkling, and finally cast my eyes to him in near shock. Three times now I would have sworn I had known what he was feeling. That felt like yet another dangerous step away from reality.

I squeezed my eyes shut. There was so much fear and worry and hurt and confusion, so much uncertainty, that when anger offered to take their place, I reached out and let it well up in me instead. “I can’t get her back!” I yelled so loudly that it hurt my throat. I didn't care who heard.

“Even if you take away the collar and the fetter, you can’t carve the the power out of me, no matter how much you want it, no matter how much I used to want it! I'm not just Alina anymore, I haven't been for a long time, and I can't go back! Fighting that has nearly gotten people killed! You can't rebuild the walls I tore down! You can’t force me back into a skin that doesn’t fit! You can't take back what's been done, and I can't give back what's been taken!”

“What if I could? What if _you_ could? Would you let it go? Would you give it up, go back to the way you were before all of this?”

“What is the point of even asking that?” I cried, exasperated. “I can’t!”

_”If you could?”_

Suddenly I heard the same question from my lips when I stood in front of the Darkling in his tent outside the Fold so many months ago.

_If there was another way, would you take it?_

_There isn’t._

_**If there was?** _

I looked away, the anger suddenly draining from me and leaving in its place a hollow I was too afraid to look at.

I looked back at Mal. “. . .No,” I whispered. The horror of the finality of the word swept through me. I couldn’t give up what I needed as much as air in my lungs. “You think you've been losing Alina,” I said, sad and resigned and quiet, but with more certainty than I had felt in a long time. “But the truth is, Mal, I haven't been dying. I've been coming alive. Being born. I can't go back from something like that. So maybe the better question is, can you love me for who I am?” My voice was weak and afraid, but level. “Who I really am, changes and all?

“You're not nothing. You've never been nothing. You're my world. I know I haven’t been easy. I know none of this has been easy. But I’m not the one who has been leaving in inches, Mal. I’m right here. Where I’ve always been.”

We stood there, in the darkness of the woods, these truths hanging between us. Again I felt the shard in my heart shift. I knew what it would leave behind when the pain was gone: nothingness, loneliness, a deep fissure that would not mend, the desperate edge of the abyss I had once glimpsed in the Darkling’s eyes. The end. The beginning.

It was a long time before he spoke. When he did, all he said was, “Let me walk you back, Alina.” His voice was clear, but broken and so, so tired.

I laughed bitterly. “Because I owe you so many favors tonight.” I brushed past him.

I stopped a few feet away and turned back. “A warning, Mal. If you are going to carry on with Zoya, keep it private. And tell her to stay far away from me. Otherwise, I'll kill her.”

It frightened me to know that I meant it. What frightened me more was that part of me hoped for the opportunity.

Mal caught up to me quickly and silently, and walked next to me without a word.

Somewhere along the way, I didn’t know when, the Darkling departed again. When we reached the door to my room, I turned to Mal. “That thing I haven’t been telling you.”

He gazed at me levelly and waited.

“I tried to tell you that night in my room. It was the real reason I froze.

“. . .I saw the Darkling standing behind you.” My voice sounded strangely far away, and though the words were calm, I wielded them like a weapon. “He was talking to me while I was trying to get you to stay. I saw him in the chapel when we went. On the way out of Kribirsk when I used the Cut. Just now, outside. I see him every day now. The first time was on the Fold when the Hummingbird nearly crashed.”

He stared at me like he couldn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth.

“I’m not sure what it is in the end, but I’m not sure it matters, either. I was too afraid to tell you because I was afraid I might be going mad. I was afraid because you already thought I was losing myself. Because your faith in me was already stretched too thin, and there was already too much on your shoulders, and I was already so afraid that I might lose you.

“. . .And because, honestly, Mal. . . I think you're already a little afraid of me. I think you have been for a while.”

Mal opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. Even then, I hoped he might deny it. Argue it. I begged for it silently, I saw on his face that he wanted to.

But rather than lie, he turned his back on me. He crossed to the guards’ quarters, snatching a bottle of kvas from the table on the way, and softly shut the door behind him.

I stood for a long time staring at the door and feeling something in the center of my chest squeeze horribly. I knew it wouldn't open, but I couldn't make myself move from the spot. When I heard someone approaching the door to the chambers, I shook myself free and quickly disappeared into my room.

I got ready for bed and eased between the sheets, but the night was too warm. I kicked them into a tangle at my feet. I lay on my back gazing up at the obsidian dome marked by constellations. I wanted to bang on Mal’s door, tell him. . .I didn't know what I wanted to tell him. I didn't know what else there was to say. I was sorry, but I didn’t feel like I had made a mistake. I wanted things to be right between us, but I didn’t feel like I had made this mess, and I couldn’t think of any way to fix it that I hadn’t already tried.

Would it have made a difference if we hadn’t come here? Or if I had ignored Nikolai's advice and we had strode into Os Alta that first day hand in hand?

_There is no ordinary life for people like you and me._

No ordinary life. Just battle and fear and anger and resentment and painful bites and mysterious crackling jolts that rocked us back on our heels. I’d spent so many years wishing to be the kind of girl that Mal would want. Maybe that wasn’t possible anymore. Maybe it had never been possible. Maybe a few weeks on the run was all we got.

_There are no others like us, Alina. And there never will be._

When the tears came, they burned hot and angry. I turned my face into my pillow so that I could cry in privacy.

Perhaps the worst thing was that from the moment I had gotten into my room, I had wished I wasn't alone. I had wished for gray eyes and a steady presence and warm, pale hands. Eventually, I even tried calling to him, to summon him to me, but I remained alone.

I wept, and when there was nothing left, I fell into a troubled sleep.

 

* * * * *

 

“Alina.”

I woke to the soft brush of lips on mine, the barest touch to my temple, my eyelids, my brow. The light from the guttering flame on my bedside table glinted off his dark hair as he bent to kiss the curve of my throat. In my somnolence, I didn’t know if it was Mal or the Darkling. I wasn’t awake enough to care about more than the fact that someone I could count on was finally here, that someone cared enough to be here, and I wasn’t alone.

I wrapped my arms around broad shoulders and pulled him closer. I tried to kiss him, but he turned his lips away, put them to my cheeks, my jaw, my neck.

“Mal?” I breathed against his ear. He didn’t answer. “I missed you. I missed you so much.” I gasped the words, and they were almost a sob by the time I finished. Silent tears were already spilling down my cheeks.

“I’m here,” he whispered, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear it. He moved up and kissed my tear tracks away.

My arms glided up his back and twined around his neck, fingers pressing into him sleepily. I felt his weight slide over me and ran my hands over the hard muscles of his arms. If he was here, if he could still love me, still try, then there was hope. My heart was pounding in my chest as warmth spread through me. There was no sound but our breathing and the shift of our bodies together. He was kissing my tears away, kissing my throat, my collarbone, drinking my skin. I shivered and pressed closer to him.

He slid a hand down my side until he reached the hem of my dressing gown. He tucked his hand underneath and slid it back up the bare skin of my thigh, bringing it to rest on my hip bone, caressing the flesh there. I started to feel more awake as my hips arched up into him of their own accord.

When he put first a knee, then his whole bulk between my thighs, it felt like being home, and my legs wrapped around him, holding him to me, needing this to go on. My back arched off the bed when his fingers skimmed over my bare stomach, and when his hand guided my hips to tilt upward and he ground himself into me, I moaned and panted.

“Alina,” he whispered, breathless, before he took my earlobe between his teeth.

Again and again I tried to kiss him, but again and again he turned away. Finally, I opened my eyes and found his head with my hands where it was kissing a trail down the center of my bare chest. I forced it up and made him look at me. I needed to know that despite how things had been, despite what we needed to work out, that we were ok. He didn’t smell of kvas, but I needed to know this wasn’t some mistake he’d regret in the morning.

I cupped his head with my hands, tilting his chin, the only sound in the room our heavy breaths, and as my gaze met his, I shrank back in terror.

I looked into Mal’s eyes—his familiar blue eyes that I knew better than my own. Except they weren’t blue. In the dying lamplight, they glimmered quartz gray.

He smiled then, a cold, clever smile like none I’d ever seen on his lips.

“I missed you too, Alina.” That voice. Cool and smooth as glass.

Mal’s features melted into shadow and then formed again like a face from the mist. Pale, beautiful, that thick shock of black hair, the perfect sweep of jaw.

The Darkling rested one gentle hand on my cheek. “Soon,” he whispered.

I sucked in a breath and I screamed. He broke into shadows and vanished.

I scrambled out of bed, clutching my arms around myself. My skin was crawling, my body quaking with terror and the memory of desire and the heat I couldn’t deny all over my skin and between my legs.

I expected Tamar or Tolya to come bursting through the door. But the room stayed silent. No one came. I stood shaking in the near dark.

I took a shallow, trembling breath. Then another.

When my legs felt steady enough, I went to the bathing room and drew a bath. I made the water as hot as I could stand and scrubbed every inch of myself until my skin felt raw. When I was done, I sat on the edge of the huge tub, eyes unfocused, until I had dried in the air. On an impulse, I pushed to my feet, pulled on my robe and peeked into the common room. It was empty.

I closed my door and pressed my back against it, staring at the rumpled covers of the bed. I was not going back to sleep. I might never sleep again. Certainly not in that bed. I glanced at the clock on the mantel. Sunrise came early during Belyanoch, but it would be hours before the palace woke.

I dug through the pile of clothes that I’d kept from our journey on the Volkvolny and pulled out a drab brown coat and a long scarf. It was too hot for either, but I didn’t care. I drew the coat on over my nightshift, wrapped the scarf around my head and neck, and tugged on my shoes.

As I crept through the common room, I saw the door to the guards’ quarters was closed. If Mal or the twins were inside, they must be sleeping deeply. I refused to think where else Mal might be, of how many options he had that were simple and uncomplicated. My heart gave a sick and nauseous twist. I took the doors to the left and hurried through the darkened halls, onto the silent grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/10/17: Replaced with post-Beta version. Beta! <3


	24. The Problem With Saints and Heroes

I drifted through the half-light, past the silent lawns covered in mist, the clouded windows of the greenhouse. The only sound was the soft crunch of my shoes on the gravel path. The morning deliveries of bread and produce were being made at the Grand Palace, and I followed the caravan of wagons straight out the gates and through the cobblestone streets of the upper town. I flinched away from anyone who came too close to touching me.

There were still a few revelers about, enjoying the twilight. I saw two people in party dress snoozing on a park bench. A group of girls laughed and splashed in a fountain, their skirts hiked up to their knees. A man wearing a wreath of poppies sat on a curb with his head in his hands while a girl in a paper crown patted his shoulder. I passed them all unseen and unremarked upon, a no-one girl in a drab brown coat.

I knew I was being foolish. The Apparat’s spies might be watching, or the Darkling’s, or some anti-Grisha zealot. I might be seized and hauled away. I wasn’t sure it mattered to me. I needed to keep walking, to fill my lungs with clean air, to shake the feeling of the Darkling’s hands and the press of his body, and the desire of having wanted them there. Despite the time, the bath, and the morning air, every place he had touched still burned. 

I put a hand over the scar at my shoulder. Even through the fabric of my coat, I could feel its raised edges. Aboard the whaler, I’d asked the Darkling why he’d let his monster bite me. I’d thought it was out of spite, so I would always wear his mark. Maybe there had been more to it than that. Didn’t he have a reason for everything he did, even petty revenge? What he had done to Baghra had been poetic, in a sick, twisted way.

 _Had_ the vision been real? Was he there-- _had_ he been there all this time, or was he something my mind had been conjuring? What sickness was inside of me that I would dream such a thing?

But I didn’t want to think. I just wanted to walk.

I crossed the canal, looking down at the little boats bobbing in the water below. From somewhere beneath the bridge, I heard the wheeze of an accordion.

I floated past the guard gate and into the narrow streets and clutter of the market town. It seemed even more crowded than it had before. People hung off stoops and overflowed from porches. Some played cards on makeshift tables made of boxes. Others slept propped up against each other. A couple swayed slowly on a tavern porch to music only they could hear.

When I came to the city walls, I told myself to stop, to turn around and go home. I almost laughed. The Little Palace wasn’t really home.

_There is no ordinary life for people like you and me._

Mine would be allegiance instead of love, fealty instead of friendship. I would weigh each decision, consider every action, trust no one. It would be life observed from a distance. Could I ever truly go back to a simple life after all of this?

I knew I should go back, but I kept on, and a moment later, I was on the other side of the wall. Just like that, I’d left Os Alta.

The tent city had grown. There were hundreds upon hundreds of people camped outside the walls, maybe thousands. The pilgrims weren’t hard to find—I was surprised to see how their numbers had increased. They crowded near a large white tent, all facing east, awaiting the early sunrise. There was almost something religious about the way they stood there, hushed, with only the early morning breeze to weave between the close press of their bodies.

The sound began as a swell of rustling whispers that fluttered on the air like the wings of birds and grew to a low hum as the sun peered over the horizon and lit the sky pale blue. Only then did I begin to make out the words.

_Sankta. Sankta Alina. Sankta. Sankta Alina._

The pilgrims watched the growing dawn, and I watched them, unable to look away from their hope, their expectation. Their faces were exultant, and as the first rays of sun broke over them, some began to weep.

The hum rose and multiplied, cresting and falling, building to a wail that raised the hair on my arms. It was a creek overflowing its banks, a hive of bees shaken from a tree.

_Sankta. Sankta Alina. Daughter of Ravka._

I closed my eyes as the sun played over my skin, praying I would feel something, anything.

_Sankta Alina. Daughter of Keramzin._

Their hands lifted heavenward, their voices rose to a frenzy, shouting now, crying out. Old faces, young ones, the sick and the frail, the healthy and the strong. Strangers every one.

I looked around me. _This isn’t hope,_ I thought. _It’s madness. It’s hunger, need, desperation._ I felt as if I were waking from a trance. Why had I come here? What had I been looking for? I was more alone among these people than behind the palace walls. They had nothing to offer me, and I had nothing to offer them.

My feet ached, and I realized just how tired I was. I turned and began making my way back through the crowd, toward the city gates, as the chanting reached a roaring clamor.

 _Sankta,_ they shouted. _Sol Koroleva. Rebe Dva Stolba._

 _Daughter of Two Mills._ I’d heard that before, on the journey to Os Alta. It was a valley named after some ancient ruin, home to a sprawl of tiny, unimportant settlements on the southern border. Mal had been born near there too, but we’d never had a chance to go back. And what would have been the point? Any bit of family we might have had was long buried or burned.

_Sankta Alina._

I thought again of my few memories from before Keramzin, of the dish of sliced beets, my fingers stained red with them. I remembered the dusty road, seen from someone’s broad shoulders, the sway of ox tails, our shadows on the ground. A hand pointing out the ruins of the mills, two narrow fingers of rock, worn down to bare spindles by wind, rain, and time. That was all that remained in my memory. The rest was Keramzin. The rest was Mal. I let my eyes close.

_Sankta Alina._

I pushed my way through the mass of bodies, pulling my scarf tighter around my ears to try to block out the noise. An old pilgrim woman stepped into my path, and I nearly knocked her over. I reached out to steady her, and she latched on to me, barely keeping her balance.

“Forgive me, babya,” I said formally. Never let it be said that Ana Kuya hadn’t taught us manners. I gently set the woman back on her feet. “Are you all right?”

But she wasn’t looking at my face—she was staring at my throat. My hand flew up to my neck. It was too late. The scarf had slipped free.

I felt my eyes widen and fought to look calm. “It’s nice, don’t you think? I bought it just outside of Kribursk. It almost looks real.” My voice was pitched too high.

“Sankta,” the woman moaned.

“No,” I hurried in a hushed voice, “I’m not--”

“Sankta!” She fell to her knees and seized my hand, pressing it to her wrinkled cheek. “Sankta Alina!”

“Please,” I begged in a loud whisper, “please be--”

Suddenly there were hands all around me, grasping at my sleeves, the hem of my coat.

“Stop,” I said loudly, trying to push away from them.

 _Sankta Alina._ Muttered, whispered, wailed, shouted. My name was strange to me, spoken like a prayer, a foreign incantation to keep away the dark.

They crowded around me, closer and closer, jostling to get near, reaching out to feel my hair, my skin. I heard something rip and realized it was the fabric of my coat.

_Sankta. Sankta Alina._

“Stop!” I yelled. Worse, I could feel light beginning to gather against my skin.

I didn't know what I could do. Even if I was willing to give away one of my tricks, all I could do that wouldn’t hurt people was vanish or make a flash of blinding light. Neither would help me.

The bodies pressed tighter, pushing and shoving, shouting at each other, each wanting to get nearer. My feet lost contact with the ground. I cried out and bright light flared as a chunk of my hair was ripped from my scalp. They were going to tear me apart.

I twisted my hand, ready to turn my skin scalding, Saints take the consequences. But at the last moment, I stopped myself. _Let them do it,_ I thought with sudden clarity. It could be over that easily. No more pain, no more confusion, no more fear or responsibility, no more nightmares of broken skiffs or children devoured by the Fold, no more visions. I could be free from the collar, from the fetter, from the crushing weight of their hope. Let them do it.

I closed my eyes. This would be my ending. It would hurt, but they could give me a page in the Istorii Sankt’ya and put a gold halo around my head as I was torn apart in the shadow of the city walls. Alina the Heartsick, Alina the Fool, Alina the Mad, Daughter of Dva Stolba. They could sell my bones by the side of the road.

Someone cried out in pain. I heard a scream, and an angry shout. Massive hands took hold of me, and I was lifted higher into the air, then down against a massive chest.

I opened my eyes and saw Tolya’s grim face. He had me in his arms.

Tamar was beside him, palms up, turning in a slow arc.

“No,” I whispered, but they didn't seem to hear me.

“Stay back,” she warned the crowd. I saw some of the pilgrims blink sleepily. A few simply sat down. She was slowing their heart rates, trying to calm them, but there were just too many. A man dove forward. Like a flash, Tamar had drawn her axes. The man bellowed as a red streak bloomed on his arm.

“Come closer, and you’ll lose it,” she snapped.

The pilgrims’ faces were wild.

“Put me down,” I protested.

Tolya ignored me, pushing his way through the crowd; Tamar circled around him, blades in motion, widening the path. The pilgrims groaned and wailed, their arms outstretched, straining toward me.

“Now,” Tolya said. Then louder, “Now!”

He bolted. My head banged against his chest and my hands claw-like to hold on as we plunged toward the safety of the city walls, Tamar at our heels. The guards had already seen the turmoil erupting and had started to close the gates.

Tolya bulled forward, knocking people from his path, charging through the narrowing gap between the iron doors. Tamar slipped in after us, seconds before the gates clanged shut. On the other side, I heard the thump of bodies pounding against the doors, hands clawing, voices raised in hunger. Still I heard my name. _Sankta Alina._

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tolya bellowed as he set me down.

“Later,” Tamar said curtly.

The city guards were glaring at me. “Get her out of here,” one of them yelled angrily. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t have a full-fledged riot on our hands.”

“Wait, I said. Let me-- I can--”

“You can get back to where it’s safe,” Tamar said, and I didn’t think I had ever heard her sound so angry.

The twins had horses waiting. Tamar yanked a blanket from a market stall and threw it around my shoulders. I clutched it to my neck, hiding the collar. She leapt into her saddle, and Tolya tossed me up unceremoniously behind her.

We rode in harried silence all the way back to the palace gates. The unrest outside the city walls had not yet spread within, and all we garnered were a few questioning looks.

The twins didn’t say a word, but I could tell they were furious. They had every right to be. I’d behaved like an idiot, and now I could only hope that the guards below could restore order without resorting to violence.

Yet beneath the panic and regret, an idea had entered my mind. I told myself it was nonsense, wishful thinking, but I could not shake it.

When we arrived back at the Little Palace, the twins wanted to escort me straight to the Darkling’s rooms, but I refused.

“I’m safe now,” I said. “There’s something I need to do.”

They insisted on trailing me to the library.

It didn’t take me long to find what I wanted. I’d been a mapmaker, after all. I tucked the book under my arm and returned to my room with my scowling guards in tow.

To my surprise, Mal was waiting in the common room. He was seated at the table, nursing a glass of tea.

He looked up. “Where were—” Mal began, but Tolya had him out of his chair and slammed against the wall before I could even blink.

“Where were you?” he snarled into Mal’s face.

“Tolya!” I shouted in alarm. I tried to pull his hand from around Mal’s throat, but it was like trying to bend a steel bar. I turned to Tamar for help, but she stood back, arms crossed, looking just as angry as her brother.

Mal made a choking sound. He hadn’t changed his clothes from last night. There was stubble on his chin, and the smell of blood and kvas hung on him like a dirty coat.

“Tolya put him down right now or I'll make you!” I yelled.

For a moment, Tolya looked like he had every intention of crushing the life out of him, but then he relaxed his fingers and Mal slid down the wall, coughing and gulping air.

“It was your shift,” Tolya rumbled, jabbing a finger at Mal’s chest. “You should have been with her.”

Understanding spread through me.

“I’m sorry,” Mal rasped, rubbing at his throat. “I must have fallen asleep. I was right next—”

“You were at the bottom of a bottle,” Tolya seethed, disgust in every word. “I can smell it on you.”

“I’m sorry,” Mal said again, and he looked truly miserable.

“Sorry?” Tolya’s fists flexed. “I ought to tear you apart.”

Realization dawned on me. “That's why no one came into my room last night,” I uttered, half to myself.

All three faces turned to me.

“What happened?” Tamar asked curtly.

“Nothing,” I said automatically. “Nothing. I screamed. A. . . bad dream.” I waved a hand dismissively. “I was just surprised when no one knocked the door off its hinges.”

I saw understanding flash behind Mal's eyes and he opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. Enough was enough.

“Don’t,” I ordered. “Get up.”

He pushed himself to his feet, clearly sore. He was watching me closely.

“Did you see a Healer last night?”

He couldn't quite meet my eyes. “I was going to go this morning.”

“Sure you were. Only now it's not a request, it's an order. Have them help you with the hangover, too. Tolya, you're replacing him today.”

The big man nodded.

Mal opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off again.

“You need to take a couple of days, Mal,” I said, my voice firm in contrast to the way it felt like something in me was unraveling. “I was clear about how I felt and what I wanted last night, but you--” I swallowed, my throat suddenly constricting. I cleared it and hardened myself as best I could. “You need to figure out if if you want to be here.” My voice nearly broke on the last words. “This, what you're doing to yourself and to the people who count on you. . . . You're holding yourself in some place that isn't yes and isn't no, isn't here and isn't gone, and I’m tired of watching it tear you in half. Enough is enough. Either be here, or _don't.”_ A single tear spilled over, and I couldn’t even have said what it was really from, but it felt like my chest was going to cave in.

“So take a couple of days,” I reiterated. “Think. Figure it out. What you want, what you need, what you can and can't tolerate. And whatever you decide, let me know in person. If you're going to leave, consider it a last order.” I couldn't look at him, afraid of what I might see, and tight in every inch of myself. Maybe all he had been waiting for was my permission, or any excuse to leave, to be done with all of this.

The room was silent.

“I can do this, Alina,” Mal said, quiet but insistent.

I couldn’t help a bitter laugh. “I know you can, Mal. You can do anything you want to, it’s always been that way. I may have light out here,” I said, giving my hand a wave, “but you have it in there.” I pointed to the center of his chest. “There's never been anything you couldn't do. But the question you need to answer is if you _want_ to do it anymore. If you will. Not this half in, half out garbage you've been doing.

“You're not stuck. You have options if you want them. I'll get you reinstated into the military, like I said. Strumhond's ships are still ready to take you anywhere you might want to go. You've more than earned a commission, you could just take it and leave, start over somewhere. Just. . . this?” I waved a hand at him. “It can't keep happening, for the sakes of every person in this room.”

“Fine. I understand, and I will, I'll think it through. But let me stay on duty, at least for tonight. I can clean myself up--”

“No. You’ve been ‘cleaning yourself up’ for months. No more, Mal.” I paused. “No more.”

He looked miserable. Gutted and hollowed out. I hated seeing him that way, and I had never thought he could ever look so _lost._ But this couldn't go on. As much as I needed him, as much as I wanted him, part of me wondered if it wouldn't be easier if he decided to go. Easier for me and better for him, as if a binding tether finally cut loose. As if I were an anchor pulling him down.

“Last night, Alina,” Mal began, and despite the fact that Tolya and Tamar were feet from him, he lowered his voice. “You said you screamed. Was it. . . ?”

I looked away. “Go see the healer, Mal,” I said quietly. “Tolya, Tamar, I need you to find Nikolai and tell him to meet me in the war room as soon as possible. And get me some food. I’m going to go clean up and change.”

I crossed to my room and closed the doors behind me, trying to pull myself together. So far today, I’d nearly died and possibly started a riot, and probably lost the only person I had ever loved. Maybe I could set fire to something expensive before breakfast. Trip through a mosaic window. I eyed a bottle of kvas, untouched for months on a table by a bookcase, before making my way to the baths.

Figuring Nikolai wouldn't be free at a moment's notice, I bathed quickly and changed into my kefta, then made my way to the war room. Mal was waiting there, half slumped in a chair, face set, though I hadn’t invited him. I suppressed a growl and just grabbed a roll from the tray of food that had been delivered and started cramming it in my mouth.

He’d changed clothes, but he still looked rumpled and out of sorts. The bruises from last night and the red eyes from his hangover were gone, at least. He glanced up at me as I chewed, saying nothing. I tried to remember if there had ever really been a time when it hadn't hurt to look at him. I did so now only out of the corners of my eyes. I knew he noticed, but I didn’t care.

I set the atlas on the long table and crossed to the ancient map of Ravka that ran the length of the far wall. Of all the maps in the war room, this one was by far the oldest and most beautiful. I trailed my fingers over the raised ridges of the Sikurzoi, the mountains that marked Ravka’s southernmost border with the Shu, then followed them down into the western foothills. The valley of Dva Stolba was too small to be marked on this map.

“Do you remember anything?” I asked Mal levelly, without looking at him. “From before Keramzin?”

Mal hadn’t been much older than I was when he came to the orphanage. I still remembered the day he’d arrived. I’d heard another refugee was coming, and I’d hoped it would be a girl for me to play with. Instead I’d gotten a pudgy, blue-eyed boy who would do anything on a dare.

“No.” His voice still sounded rough from the near choking he’d received at Tolya’s hands. Apparently he'd had the Healer ignore that.

“Nothing?”

“I used to have dreams about a woman with long gold hair in a braid. She would dangle it in front of me like a toy.”

“Your mother?”

“Mother, aunt, neighbor. How should I know? Alina, about what happened—”

“Anything else?” I interrupted cleanly.

He contemplated me for a long moment, then sighed and said, “Every time I smell licorice, I remember sitting on a porch with a red painted chair in front of me. That’s it. Everything else. . . .” He trailed off with a shrug.

He didn’t have to explain. Memories were a luxury meant for other children, not the Keramzin orphans. _Be grateful. Be grateful._

“Alina,” Mal tried again, “what you said, about the Darkling. Do you—”

But at that moment, Nikolai entered. Despite the early hour, he looked every inch the prince, blond hair gleaming, boots polished to a high shine. He took in Mal’s exhausted posture and stubble, then raised his brows and said, “Don’t suppose anyone’s rung for tea?”

“You're unnatural,” I said coolly.

“I know. No one should be this handsome _and_ charming _and_ smart. But don't be jealous, Alina. You're very pretty, too, really. And you have that whole Sun Summoner thing going for you.” He sat down and stretched his long legs out before him. Tolya and Tamar had taken up their posts, but I asked them to close the door and join us, instead.

When they were all assembled around the table, I turned to Nikolai and said, “I went out among the pilgrims this morning.”

Nikolai’s head snapped up. In an instant, the easygoing prince had vanished. “I think I must have misheard you.”

I waved a hand impatiently. “I had was mildly suicidal for a moment. It passed, I’m fine, and that’s really not the point.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mal go white. He looked stricken. The rest of the room had gone somber and heavy.

“She was almost killed,” growled Tamar. _You almost succeeded,_ she didn’t have to say.

“And yet here I am, remarkably not dead,” I replied testily, narrowing my eyes at her.

“Are you completely out of your mind?” Nikolai asked, and for once he sounded less than perfectly collected. “Those people are fanatics. What the hell happened?” He turned on Tamar. “How could you let her do something like that?”

 _“Let_ me?” I began hotly.

“I didn’t,” said Tamar, ignoring me.

“Tell me you didn’t go alone,” he said to me.

“I didn’t go alone.”

“She went alone.”

“Tamar, shut up,” I snapped. “Nikolai, look at me. Do I seem dismembered to you?” My scalp was tender from where I’d lost hair, but it wasn’t even visible. “I said I'm fine, and I'm fine. I said it was momentary, and it was. None of this is why I called you here.”

“Only because we got there in time,” said Tamar.

I muttered something about sudden and mysterious blisters being a sure sign of faith, but no one seemed to hear me.

“How did you get there?” Mal asked quietly. “How did you find her?” It was something I wanted to know, too. Their timing had been nothing short of miraculous.

Tolya’s face went dark, and he pounded one of his giant fists down on the table. “We shouldn’t have had to find her,” he said. “You had the watch.”

“Leave it alone, Tolya,” I said sharply. “It’s over, its been addressed, so leave it alone. I would have snuck past whoever was on duty anyway,” I lied. I might believe I could sneak past Tolya or Tamar if I was very, very lucky. I had no illusion that I could ever have pulled it off if Mal had been on duty. “I’m perfectly capable of being stupid on my own, and you can all stop pretending that you don't know how far from helpless I am. Now as I said, that's not why I called you here. Besides, we’re burning precious hours on the Prince's big day, so if everyone will shut up, I'd like to get on with this.”

I took a breath. Mal looked desolate. Tolya looked like he was about to smash several pieces of furniture. Tamar’s face was stony, and Nikolai was about as angry as I’d ever seen him. But at least I had their attention.

I pushed the atlas to the center of the table. “I mentioned the rabid pilgrims because while I was there, I was reminded of a name they use for me sometimes,” I said. “Daughter of Dva Stolba.”

“Two Mills?” said Nikolai.

I nodded. “A valley, named after the ruins at its mouth.”

I opened the atlas to the page I had marked. There was a detailed map of the southwestern border. “Mal and I are from somewhere around here,” I said, running my finger along the edge of the map. “The settlements stretch all along this area.”

I turned the page to an illustration of a road leading into a valley studded with towns. On either side of the road stood a slender spindle of rock.

“They don’t look like much,” grumbled Tolya.

“Exactly,” I said. “Those ruins are ancient. Who knows how long they’ve been there or what they might have been? The valley is called Two Mills, but maybe they were part of a gatehouse or an aqueduct.” I curved my finger across the spindles. “Or an arch.”

A sudden silence descended over the room. With the arch in the foreground and the mountains in the distance, the ruins looked exactly like the view behind Sankt Ilya in the _Istorii Sankt’ya._ The only thing missing was the firebird.

Nikolai pulled the atlas toward him. “Are we just seeing what we want to see?”

“I hate to say it, but so far there has been some sort of connection between me and each of these amplifiers. This would be the most impressive by far, but hardly the most surprising. And if we are just seeing what we want. . . that's a pretty big coincidence.”

“We’ll send scouts,” he suggested.

“Not a chance,” I said. “I'm going. As soon as possible.”

“If you leave now, everything you’ve accomplished with the Second Army will be undone. I’ll go. If Vasily can run off to Caryeva to buy ponies, then no one will mind if I take a little hunting trip.”

Something ugly threatened to rise up in me. I tamped it down. “How would that be different than sending scouts? I have to go because I have to be the one to kill it. You know that.”

“We don’t even know it’s there.”

“And if it is, sending someone ahead of me would be a colossal waste of time that we don't have.”

“Why are we even discussing it?” asked Mal. “We all know it’s going to be me.”

Tamar and Tolya exchanged an uneasy glance.

Nikolai cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Oretsev, you don’t quite seem at your best.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“I think you do that enough for the both of us,” Mal replied, temper starting to fray. Then he scrubbed a hand over his face, looking more weary than ever. “I’m too tired and too hungover to argue this. I’m the only one who can find the firebird. It has to be me.”

“No,” I said, and I would have been impressed with how cool and detached I sounded if it didn’t hurt so much. “It doesn't. If I'm fated to have this last amplifier, I'll find it on my own.”

I turned to Mal. “You seem to have failed to notice that you weren't invited to this meeting, Mal, and that was for a reason. You're on leave. It wasn't a request.” I saw a muscle in his jaw jump when Nikolai cast a careful glance at him. “I'm done forcing you to do things you don't want to do.” My voice was cold and a little bitter and practically hollow. It left no room for argument. “So we'll be handling this.”

“You know you won't find it without me.”

“I believe I just said the opposite.” I looked at him. He looked horrible, more tired than I had ever seen him, but he had that stubborn set to his chin that I knew meant any argument would be a waste of time. I shook my head. I sighed heavily. “Fine. But I'm going with you.”

“No,” he said with surprising force. “I’ll hunt it. I’ll capture it. I’ll bring it back to you. But you’re not coming with me.”

I stiffened. “You want to transport the actual living firebird across hundreds of miles? That’s idiotic,” I protested, trying to hide how taken aback I was. “Even _if_ you caught it, how would you get it back here?”

“Get one of your Fabrikators to rig something up for me,” he said. “This is best for everyone. You get the firebird, and I get free of this saintsforsaken place.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but found I couldn't force words out against the sudden stab in my chest. Did he not need time to decide?

“You can’t travel by yourself,” Nikolai said. “I can--”

“Then give me Tolya or Tamar,” Mal said to me, as if it had been my argument instead of Nikolai’s. “We’ll travel faster and draw less attention on our own.”

“That would make their actual job of guarding Alina difficult, don’t you think?” Nikolai asked, a parody of something Mal had sain months ago.

Mal pushed his chair back and stood with a shake of his head. “You figure out whatever logistics you want.” He didn’t look at me when he said, “Just tell me when I can leave.”

I felt boneless. “. . . Is that your answer, then?” I asked, my voice barely loud enough to hear.

He shook his head in denial. “I just need to get out of here. I told you I'd get you the firebird, and I will.”

That was the last thing he wanted. So why--?

Before anyone could raise another objection, he was gone.

I turned away, squeezing my eyes shut and pinching the bridge of my nose to fight back tears. I was so, so tired of crying. Behind me, I heard Nikolai murmuring instructions to the twins and they departed.

As I collected myself, I studied the map. Poliznaya, where we’d begun done our military service. A dozen towns and outposts we'd passed through with our units. Ryevost, where we’d begun our journey into the Petrazoi. Tsibeya, where we had finally kissed me for the first time.

Nikolai laid his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t know whether I wanted to swat it away or turn and fall into his arms. What would he do if I did? Pat my back? Hold me? Propose? What did I _want_ him to do?

“It’s for the best, Alina,” he said quietly.

I laughed bitterly. “The best for who?”

He dropped his hand. “Him, for starters. He doesn’t belong here.”

 _He belongs with me,_ I wanted to scream.

_You belonged with me, Alina._

But I knew it wasn’t true. I thought of Mal’s bruised face, of him pacing back and forth like a caged animal, of him spitting blood and beckoning to Eskil for more. Go on. Maybe I should save him time and trouble and just make the decision for him. Why had I fought for this? Why had I let him follow me when I fled Os Alta?

I remembered thinking so many months ago that perhaps Mal and I saving each other during our last, failed attempt at crossing the Fold was meant to be the end of us. Maybe I had been right, and everything since then had only been fighting the tide of destiny. I thought of him holding me in his arms as we crossed the True Sea. The map blurred as my eyes filled with tears.

“Let him go,” said Nikolai.

“Why?” I laughed wetly. “And go where? Chasing after another mythical creature. On some impossible quest into mountains crawling with Shu? For what? He doesn’t even want anything to do with me.”

“Alina,” Nikolai said softly, “that’s what heroes do.”

“He doesn't need to be a hero! He never did! All he ever needed to be was exactly who he is!”

“That's my point. He can’t change who he is any more than you can stop being Grisha. This is him being who he is.”

It was an echo of what I’d said only hours ago, but I didn’t want to hear it.

“Why can't we be what we are together?” I asked weakly. My voice was practically pleading. “I never should have asked for this stupid army. I should have let us turn around and leave the second we heard you out.”

“It wouldn't have mattered, in the end. Some parts just don't fit together, Alina. Sometimes it just takes time to see that.”

 _He is the one broken cog in all of this,_ the Darkling had said.

“You don’t care what happens to him.” I huffed a harsh laugh. “You just want him gone.”

“If I wanted you to fall out of love with Mal, I’d make him stay here. I’d let him keep soaking his troubles in kvas and acting like a wounded ass. But is this really the life you want for him?”

I took a shaky breath. It wasn’t. I knew that. Mal was miserable here. He’d been suffering since the moment we’d arrived, fighting against it even as he tried to fit, but I had refused to see it. I’d railed at him for wanting me to be something I couldn’t, and all the while, I’d forced him into that same box. I brushed the tears from my cheeks. There was no point to arguing with Nikolai. Mal had been a soldier. He wanted purpose. Here it was, if I would just let him take it.

And why not admit it? Even as I protested, there was another voice inside me, a troubling hunger that demanded completion, that clamored for Mal to go out and find the firebird, that insisted he bring it back to me, no matter the cost. I’d told Mal that the girl he knew was gone. Better for him to leave before he saw just how true that was becoming. When I put on that second fetter, I might not even be human anymore.

“You know the horrible part?” I whispered. “I don't know if you actually care, or if you're just maneuvering me. But. . . .Two days, Nikolai.”

“What?”

“I'll give you an answer to your proposal in two days. And one more thing.” I took a deep breath, then I turned to find him watching me. I knew this was crazy. I knew that. I knew how it would sound. But if I was wrong, I didn't want to live with the consequences of having not said anything. “Don't ask me how I know, but I think the Darkling might be planning to move on Os Alta soon.”

“How soon?”

“I don't know. Just. . .soon. Maybe very soon. Maybe days. Maybe weeks, but I don’t think so.”

“And you can't tell me why you think this?”

“No. I don't know if I'm right, and I'm probably not, but in case I am. . .I couldn't risk not saying something.”

He looked at me. “Do you have any other flashes of intuition about him? The direction he's coming from? Numbers he might bring? Additional weapons?”

I shook my head. I was grateful he was even taking me seriously.

Nikolai tapped a finger against the table. “Without more information, there's not much we can do that isn't already in place. I can have the guard put on alert, but all our outposts are already watching for him, and if you think he might move soon, any message we send may not reach them in time, anyway.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” I said, chewing the inside of my lip.

“We're ready for him, Alina.”

I gazed at him for a long moment, taking in his confident face, his calm certainty. I nodded.

“So,” he said, his tone and demeanor changing back to the confident, easy Prince. “Two days? Are you sure you don't want to give me an early birthday present?”

“Who said my answer was going to be yes? Maybe I'm just stringing you along to make your inevitable disappointment that much more satisfying.”

“I've never been overly fond of disappointment.”

I fiddled with one edge of the map. “. . .Nikolai, how do you know if you’re going mad?” I tried to make my tone light and casual, but failed.

He scrutinized me, and I worried that he’d see too much.

“The short answer? If you’re worried you might be, then you’re not.”

I looked at him.

“That’s the definition of madness. You think it’s everyone _else_ who’s crazy. If you’re worried about it, then you’re probably safe. But if it worries you enough to ask, then I recommend confiding in someone you trust. I’ve seen it at sea. If you leave it alone too long, it can turn into something you can’t handle anymore. Even if you’re a living Saint.”

My eyes swept over the southern mountains. I let my fingers drift over the illustration of Dva Stolba.

“. . .You know the problem with saints and heroes, Nikolai?” I asked as I closed the book’s cover and headed for the door. “They always end up dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Beta liiiiiiives!
> 
> Home stretch, people.
> 
> Please remember that the last chapter is not a chapter, but "only" an epilogue. I always get disappointed when I get to the end of a book and find I've forgotten that.


	25. Ne Ravka

Mal and I avoided each other all afternoon, so it was a surprise when he showed up with Tamar to escort me to Nikolai’s birthday dinner. He’d shaved and had his hair trimmed. His uniform was neatly pressed. He looked weary and distant, but he looked like Mal again.

“I'll take my two days starting tomorrow, moi soverenyi,” he said formally. He had that stubborn set to his jaw.

I glanced at Tamar, who looked sideways at Mal, then gave me a nod. With that, Mal was back on for the night.

I’d given serious thought to not attending the dinner myself, but there didn’t seem to be much point. I couldn’t think of a likely excuse, and my absence would just offend the King and Queen, on whose good graces I unfortunately still depended.

I’d dressed in a light kefta made of shimmering panels of sheer gold silk. The bodice was set with gleaming gems that shifted color in the light, and sunstones, lit softly from behind by my power. Matching jewels were in my hair. Genya would have loved it.

Mal’s eyes flickered over me as I entered the common room, and then away again as fast as he could move them. Nikolai was right: keeping Mal here was becoming cruel.

Dinner was held in one of the sumptuous dining rooms of the Grand Palace, a chamber known as the Eagle’s Nest for the massive frieze on its ceiling depicting the crowned double eagle, a scepter in one talon and a cluster of black arrows bound by red, blue, and purple ribbons in the other. Its feathers had been wrought in real gold, and I couldn’t help but think of the firebird.

The table was crowded with the highest-ranking generals of the First Army, their wives, and all the most prominent Lantsov uncles, aunts, and cousins. The Queen sat at one end of the table looking like a crumpled flower in pale rose silk. At the opposite end, Vasily sat next to the King, pretending not to notice as his father ogled an officer’s young wife. Nikolai held court at center table with me beside him, his charm sparkling as always. I had wished him a happy birthday when I reached the table, and he had made a show of thanking me and placing a kiss on my cheek that lingered just a moment too long. My eyes had flickered to Mal, but if he had noticed, he gave no sign.

Nikolai had asked that no ball be thrown in his honor. It didn’t seem fitting with so many refugees going hungry outside the city walls. But it was Belyanoch, and the King and Queen didn’t seem able to restrain themselves. The meal consisted of thirteen courses, including a whole suckling pig and a life-size gelatin mold cast in the shape of a fawn.

When the time came for gifts, Nikolai’s father presented him with an enormous egg glazed in pale blue. It opened to reveal an exquisite miniature ship set on a lapis sea. Sturmhond’s red dog banner flew from the ship’s mast, and its little cannon fired with a pop that released the tiniest puff of white smoke.

Throughout the meal, I listened to the conversation with one ear while I tried to keep my attention off Mal. The King’s guards were placed at intervals along each wall. I knew Tamar stood somewhere behind me, but Mal was directly across from me, standing at rigid attention, eyes constantly sweeping the room behind the blank stare that all servants had. It was like some kind of torture, watching him this way. We were just a few feet apart, but it felt like miles. And hadn’t that been the way of it since we’d come to Os Alta? There was a knot in my chest that seemed to grow tighter every time I glanced at him, over and over unable to help myself.

The nobles raised toasts to Nikolai’s health. The generals praised his military leadership and courage. I expected to see Vasily sneer at all the praise being heaped onto his brother, but he looked positively cheery. His trip to Caryeva seemed to have left him in a good mood. As the evening wore on, his face turned rosy with wine, and there was what could only be described as a smug smile on his lips. It made me feel unseasy.

My eyes flitted back to Mal. I didn’t know whether I wanted to cry or stand up and start hurling dishes against the wall. The room felt too warm, and the wound at my shoulder had started to itch and pull again, which made control of my mood all the more difficult. I had to resist the urge to reach up and scratch it more than once.

 _Maybe I’ll have another hallucination in the middle of the dining room, and the Darkling will climb out of the soup tureen and do a dance,_ I thought glumly.

Nikolai bent his head and whispered, “I know my company doesn’t count for much, but could you at least try? You look like you’re about to burst into tears.”

I shook myself. “Of course your company counts, Nikolai. How could it not when you're so dashing and charming and annoyingly, incorrigibly persistent?” I gave him a wan smile. “I'm sorry, though,” I murmured. “I know. I’m just. . . .”

“I know,” he echoed, and gave my hand a squeeze beneath the table. “But that gelatin deer gave its life for your entertainment.”

I laughed weakly. “I am being a poor celebrant, aren't I?” I said, emotion stabbing through me at the words. “ . . .Would you--” I hated myself for what I was about to ask. “Could you have someone tell him to change places with Tamar? I can't. . . . I can't.”

He nodded and flagged a servant. Mal's eyes didn't so much as flick in my direction when Tamar took his post. I supposed I should be glad. With him out of my line of sight, at least, I found it a little easier to put on a better show.

I tried to smile, and I did make an effort. I laughed and chatted with the round, red-faced general on my right and pretended to care as the freckled Lantsov boy across from me rambled on about repairs to the dacha he’d inherited. All I could think was how different I felt from all these people, until moments when the opulence of my own outfit or the finery of the dishes caught my attention. I found myself wondering if I knew who _I_ was.

When the flavored ices had been served, Vasily rose to his feet and lifted a glass of champagne.

“Brother,” he said, “it is good to be able to toast your birth this day and to celebrate with you when you have spent so long on other shores. I salute you and drink to your honor. To your health, little brother!”

“Ne zalost!” chorused the guests, drinking deeply from their glasses and resuming their conversations.

But Vasily wasn’t finished. He tapped the side of his glass with his fork, producing a loud _clink clink clink_ that regained the party’s attention.

“Today,” he said, “we have more to celebrate than my brother’s noble birth.”

If the emphasis weren’t enough, Vasily’s smirk would have been. Nikolai continued to smile pleasantly. I wanted to throw a glass at Vasily’s head.

“As you all know,” Vasily continued, “I have been traveling these last weeks.”

“And no doubt spending,” chortled the red-faced general. “Have to build yourself a new stable soon, I suspect.”

Vasily’s glare was icy. “I did not go to Caryeva. Instead, I journeyed north on a mission sanctioned by our dear father.”

Beside me, Nikolai went very still.

“After long and arduous negotiations, I am pleased to announce that Fjerda has agreed to join us in our fight against the Darkling. They have pledged both troops and resources to our cause.”

“Can this be?” asked one of the noblemen.

Vasily’s chest swelled with pride. “It can. At long last and through no small effort, our fiercest enemy has become our most powerful ally.”

The guests broke out into excited conversation. The King beamed and embraced his eldest son. “Ne Ravka!” he shouted, lifting his champagne.

“Ne Ravka!” sang the guests.

Nikolai and I were the only ones not celebrating. The younger prince was frowning - he’d said his brother liked shortcuts, and it seemed Vasily had found one. But it was too good to be true. It wasn’t like Nikolai to let his disappointment or frustration show.

“An extraordinary achievement, brother. I salute you,” Nikolai said, lifting his glass. “Dare I ask what they wanted in return for this support?”

“They do drive a hard bargain,” Vasily said with an indulgent laugh. “But nothing too onerous. They sought access to our ports in West Ravka and requested our help policing the southern trade routes against Zemeni pirates. I imagine you’ll be of some assistance with that, brother,” he said with another warm chuckle. “They wanted a few of the northern logging roads reopened, and once the Darkling is defeated, they expect the cooperation of the Sun Summoner in our joint efforts to push back the Fold.”

Nikolai's eyes flicked to me, but I was too tense to be angry.

Vasily grinned broadly at me. I bridled at a little then, but even the leader of the Second Army was a subject of the King. I gave what I hoped was a respectful nod, but I made no effort to put a smile on my lips.

“Which roads?” asked Nikolai.

Vasily waved his hand dismissively. “They’re somewhere south of Halmhend, west of the permafrost. They’re sufficiently defended by the fort at Ulensk if the Fjerdans get any ideas.”

Nikolai stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the parquet floor. “When did you lift the blockades?” He asked sharply. “How long have the roads been open?”

Vasily shrugged. “What difference—”

_“How long?”_

The wound at my shoulder throbbed. I grimaced and had to put a hand to it.

“A little over a week,” Vasily said. “Surely you’re not concerned that the Fjerdans intend to march on us from Ulensk? The rivers won’t freeze for months, and until then—”

“Did you ever stop to consider why they might concern themselves with a logging route?”

Vasily gave a disinterested wave. “I assume because they’re in need of timber,” he said dismissively. “Or maybe it’s sacred to one of their ridiculous woodsprites.”

There was nervous laughter around the table.

“It’s defended by a single fort,” Nikolai growled.

_Soon._

“No,” I breathed. I jumped to my feet, eyes finding Tamar and Mal. Instantly, their hands were on their weapons.

“Because the passage is too narrow to accommodate any real force,” Vasily retorted, smug superiority well in place.

“You are waging an old war, brother. The Darkling doesn’t need a battalion of foot soldiers or heavy guns. All he needs are his Grisha and the nichevo’ya. We have to evacuate the palace immediately.”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“Our one advantage was early warning, and the scouts at those blockades were our first defense. They were our eyes, and you blinded us. The Darkling could be mere miles from us by now.” I had only seen him so serious a few times. He was obviously tense, but still he maintained an air of calm and authority.

Vasily shook his head sadly. “You make yourself ridiculous.”

Nikolai slammed his hands down on the table.The dishes rattled loudly, causing several of the nobles to jump. “Why isn’t the Fjerdan delegation here to share in your glory?” He asked loudly. “To toast this unprecedented alliance?”

“He's right,” I said tightly. “We need to get everyone out of here, now!”

Murmurs broke out in the crowd, but Vasily waved me off. “They sent their regrets. They were not able to travel immediately, due—”

“They’re not here because there’s about to be a massacre! Their pact is with the Darkling.”

“All of our intelligence puts him in the south with the Shu.”

Nikolai’s voice was raised now. “You think he doesn’t have spies? That he doesn’t have his own operatives within our network? He laid a trap that any child could recognize, and you walked right into it.”

Vasily’s face turned purple.

“Nikolai, surely—” his mother objected.

“The fort at Ulensk is manned by a full regiment,” put in one of the generals.

“You see?” said Vasily. “This is fearmongering of the worst kind, and I will not stand for it.”

“A regiment against an army of nichevo’ya? Everyone at that fort is already dead,” said Nikolai, “sacrificed to your pride and stupidity.”

Vasily’s hand went to his sword hilt. “You overreach, you little bastard.”

The Queen gasped. My light flared involuntarily.

Nikolai released a harsh laugh. “Yes, call me out, brother. A lot of good it will do. Look around this table,” he said. “Every general, every nobleman of high rank, most of the Lantsov line, and the Sun Summoner. All in one place, on one night.”

A number of faces at the table went suddenly pale. One or two of the Generals started to rise from their chairs.

“Perhaps,” said the freckle-faced boy across from me, “we should consider—”

“No!” said Vasily, his lip trembling in anger. “This is his own petty jealousy! He cannot stand to see me succeed. He—!”

The warning bells began to ring, distant at first, down near the city walls, one and then another, joining each other in a rising chorus of alarm that echoed up the streets of Os Alta, through the upper town, and over the walls of the Grand Palace. My shoulder _ached._

“You’ve handed him Ravka,” said Nikolai.

The guests rose, pushing back from the table in a gabble of panic.

Mal was at my side immediately, his saber drawn.

“We have to get to the Little Palace,” I said, thinking of the mirrored dishes mounted on the roof. “Where’s Tamar?”

The windows exploded.

Glass rained down on us and screams from outside the palace filled the vast space. I threw up my arms to shield my face even as Mal put himself between me and the windows, and the guests screamed, huddling against each other.

The nichevo’ya swarmed into the room on wings of molten shadow, filling the air with the whirring buzz of insects.

“Get the King to safety!” Nikolai cried, unsheathing his sword and running to his mother’s side.

The palace guards stood paralyzed, frozen in terror.

A shadow lifted the freckled boy from his feet and threw him against the wall before I could even move. He slid to the ground, his neck broken.

I climbed atop the table and raised my hands, but even from higher ground the room was too crowded for me to risk using the Cut. I aimed it at the high windows, slice after slice cutting a blinding swath through the room, hoping to catch some of the nichevo’ya as they came through. I saw many puff out of existence, but not nearly enough.

Vasily still stood at the table, the King cowering beside him.

“You did this!” he screamed at Nikolai. “You and the witch!”

He lifted his saber high and charged, bellowing with rage. Mal stepped in front of me, raising his sword. But before Vasily could bring down his weapon, a nichevo’ya grabbed hold of him and tore his arm from its socket, sword and all. He stood for a moment, swaying, blood pumping from his wound, then dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap.

The Queen began to shriek hysterically. She shoved forward, trying to reach her son’s body, feet slipping in his blood as Nikolai held her back.

“Don’t,” he pleaded, wrapping his arms around her. “He’s gone, Madraya. He’s gone.”

Another pack of nichevo’ya descended from the windows, my barrage of cuts hardly making a dent in their numbers. They were clawing their way toward Nikolai and his mother.

I had to take a chance. I brought the light down low in two blazing arcs, cutting through one monster after another, barely missing one of the generals who crouched cowering on the floor. People were screaming and weeping as the nichevo’ya fell upon them.

“To me!” Nikolai shouted, herding his mother and father toward the door. We followed with the guards, backing our way into the hall, and ran.

The Grand Palace had erupted into chaos. Panicked servants and footmen crowded the corridors, some scrambling for the entrance, others barricading themselves into rooms. I heard wailing, the sound of breaking glass. A boom sounded from somewhere outside.

 _Let it be the Fabrikators,_ I thought desperately.

Mal and I burst from the palace and careened down the marble steps. A screech of twisting metal rent the air. I looked down the white gravel path in time to see the golden gates of the Grand Palace blown off their hinges by a wall of Etherealki wind. The Darkling’s Grisha streamed onto the grounds.

A guard slammed into my shoulder as he ran by. Then he saw my face, and cold anger filled his. “You,” he accused. “This is your fault! The Darkling--” he raised his sword in a flash, but before I could react, a nichevo’ya swooped down and plucked him from the ground. He was carried, shrieking, into the air, and then dropped from a great height. We were already moving again. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, lifeless, terrified eyes staring blankly at our departing figures.

Nikolai’s eyes flashed to mine. That was twice now one of the Darkling’s creatures had killed someone who tried to harm me.

We pelted down the path toward the Little Palace. Nikolai and the royal guards trailed behind us, slowed by his frail father.

At the entrance to the wooded tunnel, the King bent double, wheezing badly as the Queen wept and held tight to his arm.

“I have to get them to the Kingfisher,” said Nikolai.

“Take the long way around,” I said tightly. “The Darkling will be headed to the Little Palace first. He’ll be coming for me.”

“Alina, if he captures you—”

 _“Go,”_ I said. “Get them out. Get Baghra out.”

“As soon as I get them to safety I’ll come back. I promise.”

“On your word as a cutthroat and a pirate?”

He touched my cheek once, briefly. “Privateer.”

I laced my fingers loosely through his and gave them a quick squeeze. I managed a tight smile.

Another explosion rocked the grounds.

“Let’s go!” shouted Mal.

As we sprinted into the tunnel, I glanced back and saw Nikolai silhouetted against the purple twilight. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.

 

* * * * *

 

The wound at my shoulder burned and throbbed, driving me faster as we raced along the path. My mind was reeling— _if they had a chance to seal themselves in the main hall, if they had time to man the guns on the roof, if I can just reach the dishes._ All of our plans, undone by Vasily’s jealous arrogance.

I burst into the open, and my slippered feet sent gravel flying as I skidded to a halt. I don’t know if it was momentum or the sight before me that nearly drove me to my knees and had me grabbing for Mal’s arm.

The Little Palace was wreathed in seething shadows. They clicked and whirred as they skittered over the walls and swooped down on the roof. There were bodies lying on the steps, bodies crumpled on the ground. It was dark and shining with blood. The front doors were wide open.

The path in front of the steps was littered with shards of broken mirror. Lying on its side was the shattered hulk of one of David’s dishes, a girl’s body crushed beneath it, her goggles askew. Paja. Two nichevo’ya crouched before the dish, gazing at their broken reflections.

I released a howl of pure rage and sent a fiery swath of light burning through both of them. It fractured along the edges of the dish as the nichevo’ya disappeared.

I heard the rattle of gunfire from up on the roof. Someone was still alive. Someone was still fighting. And there was one dish left. It wasn’t much, but it was all we had.

“This way,” said Mal.

We tore across the lawn and in through the door that led to the Darkling’s chambers. At the base of the stairs, a nichevo’ya came shrieking at us from a doorway, knocking me off my feet. Mal slashed at it with his saber. It wavered, then re-formed.

“Get down!” I yelled. He ducked, and I sent the Cut slicing through the shadow soldier. I took the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding, Mal close on my heels. The air was thick with the smell of blood and the bone-shaking clatter of gunfire.

As we emerged onto the roof, I heard someone shout. “Away!”

We just had time to duck before the grenatki exploded high above us, searing our eyelids with light and leaving our ears ringing. Corporalki manned Nikolai’s guns, sending torrents of bullets into the mass of shadows as Fabrikators fed them ammunition. The remaining dish was surrounded by armed Grisha, struggling to keep the nichevo’ya at bay. David was there, clinging awkwardly to a rifle and trying to hold his ground. I threw the light high in a blazing whipcrack that split the sky overhead and bought us a few precious seconds.

“David, do it!”

David gave two hard blasts on the whistle around his neck. Nadia dropped her goggles, and Ruslan, manning the dish, moved into position. I didn’t wait—I lifted my hands and sent light streaming at the dish. The whistle blew. The dish tilted. A single pure beam of light charged out from the mirrored surface. Even without the second dish, it skewered the sky, slashing through the nichevo’ya as they burned away to nothing.

The beam swept the air in a gleaming arc, dissolving black bodies before it, thinning the horde until we could see the deep Belyanoch twilight. A fierce cheer went up from the Grisha at the first sight of stars, and a thin sliver of hope pierced my terror.

Then a nichevo’ya broke through. It dodged the beam and hurled itself at the dish, rocking it on its moorings.

Mal was on the creature in an instant, slashing and cutting. A group of Grisha tried to seize its muscled legs, but the thing shifted and skittered away from them. Then the nichevo’ya were descending from all sides. I saw one slip past the beam and dive straight into the back of the dish. The mirror rocked forward. The light faltered, then winked out.

“Nadia!” I cried. She and Ruslan leapt from the dish just in time. It toppled on its side in a tremendous crash of breaking glass as the nichevo’ya renewed their attack.

I threw out arc after arc of light.

“Get to the hall!” I ordered. “Seal the doors!”

The Grisha ran, but they were not fast enough. I heard a shout and saw the brief flash of Fedyor’s face as he was lifted from his feet and tossed from the roof. _No!”_ I cried out and laid down a bright shower of cover, but the nichevo’ya just kept coming. If only we’d had the warning we had been counting on. If only we’d had more time.

Mal was suddenly beside me again, rifle in hand. “It’s no good,” he said loudly to be heard over the din. “We have to get out of here.”

I nodded, and we backed toward the stairs as the sky grew dense with writhing shapes once more. My foot connected with something soft behind me, and I stumbled.

Sergei was huddled against the dome. He held Marie in his arms. She’d been torn open from neck to navel.

“There’s no one left,” he sobbed, tears running down his cheeks. “There’s no one left.” He rocked back and forth, holding Marie tighter. I couldn’t bear to look at her. Silly, giggling Marie with her soft brown curls.

The nichevo’ya were skittering over the roof, rushing toward us in a black tide.

I gripped Sergei's chin roughly and forced him to look at me. “We're left! Now get up!”

He didn't move.

“Mal, get him moving!” I shouted. I slashed out at the throng of shadows rushing toward us.

He grabbed Sergei and pulled him away from Marie. He flailed and struggled, but we got him inside and banged the door shut behind us. We half carried, half shoved him down the stairs. On the second flight, we heard the roof door blow open above us. I threw a slicing cut of light high, hoping to hit something other than the staircase, and we nearly tumbled down the final flight.

We threw ourselves into the main hall, and the doors crashed closed behind us as the Grisha rammed the lock into place. There was a loud thud and then another as the nichevo’ya tried to break through the door.

“Alina!” Mal shouted. I turned and saw that the other doors were sealed, but there were still nichevo’ya inside. Zoya and Adrik were backed against a wall, using Squaller winds to heave tables and chairs and broken bits of furniture at an oncoming pack of shadow soldiers.

I raised my hands, and the light swept forward in sizzling cords moving like whips, tearing through the nichevo’ya one by one, until they were gone. Zoya dropped her hands, and a samovar fell with a loud clang. “Nice trick,” she panted, her face white.

At every door we heard thumping and scraping. The nichevo’ya were clawing at the wood, trying to get in, searching for a crack or gap to seep through. The buzzing and clicking seemed to come from all sides. But the Fabrikators had done their work well. The seals would hold, at least for a little while.

Then I looked around the room. The hall was bathed in blood and bits of flesh and innards. The walls were smeared with it, the stone floor was wet with it. There were bodies everywhere, broken heaps of purple, red, and blue.

“Are there any others?” I asked with forced calm. I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice.

Zoya gave a single, dazed shake of her head. A spatter of blood covered one of her cheeks. “We were at dinner,” she said. “We heard the bells. There wasn’t time to seal the doors. They were just. . . everywhere.”

Sergei was sobbing quietly. David looked pale, but calm. Nadia and Ruslan had made it down to the hall. She had her arm around Adrik, and he still had that stubborn tilt to his chin, though he was trembling. There were three Inferni and two more Corporalki—one Healer and one Heartrender. They were all that remained of the King's Second Army.

“Did anyone see Tolya or Tamar?” I asked. But no one had. They might be dead. Or maybe they’d played some part in this disaster. Tamar had disappeared from the dining room the moment trouble began, and I had seen no sign of Tolya. For all I knew, they’d been working with the Darkling all along. Maybe they helped him set tonight up.

“Nikolai might not have left yet,” Mal said. “We could try to make it to the Kingfisher.”

I shook my head. “It wouldn't be able to carry all of us even if it was still here,” I said. If Nikolai wasn’t gone, then he and the rest of his family were dead, and possibly Baghra too. I had a sudden image of Nikolai’s body floating facedown in the lake beside the splintered pieces of the Kingfisher and felt sour bile rise in my throat.

No. I would not think that way. I remembered what I’d thought of Nikolai the first time I’d met him. I had to believe the clever fox would escape this trap, too.

“The Darkling concentrated his forces here,” I said. “We can make a run for the upper town and try to fight our way out from there.”

“We’ll never make it,” said Sergei hopelessly. “There are too many of them.” It was true. We’d known it might come to this, but we’d assumed we’d have greater numbers, warning, and the hope of reinforcements from Poliznaya.

“. . .Or.” I said.

I looked around the room, then at Mal.

Understanding flashed behind his eyes. “No. _No,_ Alina. Absolutely not.”

“If there's no other way. . . . If I can save everyone that's left, I have to try. He wants me. I can use that.”

From somewhere in the distance, we heard a rolling crack of thunder.

“He’s coming,” moaned one of the Inferni. “Oh, Saints, he’s coming.”

“He’ll kill us all,” whispered Sergei.

“If we’re lucky,” replied Zoya.

“Shut up,” I snapped.

It wasn’t the most helpful thing to say, but they were still right. I’d seen the truth of how the Darkling dealt with traitors in the shadowy depths of his own mother’s eyes, and if any of the other people in this room survived, they would be treated far more harshly.

I looked into Mal's eyes. I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips, not caring who saw, then whirled and ran for the door. If they could run, I could at least give them a head start.

Mal caught me around the waist and pulled me up short, kicking.

“You are not doing this, Alina!” He shouted.

“I hate to say it, but he's right.” Zoya's voice rang out, and I stopped struggling, momentarily stunned. “Giving yourself up now is a terrible idea. He either gets us here, or he doesn't. Either way, you won't do anyone any favors getting caught. If we can get out of here, if there's any hope left of stopping him, we're going to need a Sun Summoner.”

“She's right,” one of the Inferni – Harshaw, I remembered – said calmly.

I remembered my insistence on using my powers in the Fold the day I got discovered. I remembered refusing to kill the stag. Again, I remembered Nikolai's insistence that my relationship with Mal remain a secret. I remembered my failed, desperate attempt to take my own life. I had tried to do what was right by sacrificing what I knew to be good sense, and every time, I had made things worse. I slowly relaxed in Mal's arms. He cautiously let me go, but stayed close at my side.

Zoya tried to wipe the blood from her face, but only succeeded in leaving a smear across her cheek. “I say we try to get to the upper town. I’d rather take my chances with the monsters outside than sit here waiting for the Darkling.”

“The odds aren’t good,” I warned. “There are too many of them, and they're too fast for me to cut down before they get to us.”

“Maybe. Unless you’re hiding any more tricks,” Zoya said.

“Nothing that will help now. And I wasn’t hiding that,” I said, looking to where I had cut down the nichevo’ya with a Cut that had moved more like a whip. “It was a happy accident.”

“At least with the nichevo’ya it will be relatively quick,” David said. “I say we go down fighting.” We all turned to look at him. He seemed a little surprised himself. Then he shrugged. He met my eyes and said, “We do the best we can.”

I looked around the circle. One by one they nodded.

I took a breath. “David, do you have any grenatki left?”

He pulled two iron cylinders from his kefta. “These are the last.”

“Use one, keep the other in reserve. I’ll give the signal, and when the blast settles, I'll try to keep them confused as we move. Be ready for the flare, don't look at it. When the doors open, run for the palace gates. I’ll give you cover and follow behind.”

“I’m staying with you,” Mal said.

I opened my mouth to argue, but one look told me there would be no point.

“Don’t wait for us,” I said to the others. “If we can't follow, we'll find another way out.”

Another clap of thunder split the air, closer this time.

The Grisha plucked rifles from the arms of the dead and gathered around me at the door.

“All right,” I said. I turned and laid my hands on the carved handles. Through my palms, I felt the thump of nichevo’ya bodies as they continued to heave themselves against the wood. I called light to my palms, ready to release it. My wound gave a searing throb, and I hissed in pain.

I nodded to Zoya. The lock snicked back.

I threw the door open and shouted, “Now!”

David lobbed the flash bomb into the twilight as Zoya swooped her arms through the air, lofting the cylinder higher on a Squaller draft.

“Get down!” David yelled. We turned toward the shelter of the hall, eyes squeezed shut, hands thrown over our heads, bracing for the explosion.

The blast shook the stone floor beneath our feet, and the glare burned red across my closed lids.

I threw up a white light in our path. We ran. The nichevo’ya had scattered, startled by the burst of brightness and sound, but only seconds later, they were whirling back toward us, trying to pick us out of the glare.

“Run!” I shouted. I raised my arms and brought the light down in fiery scythes, recoiling to arc through the air like great serpents. They cut through the violet sky, carving through clumps of nichevo’ya as Mal opened fire. The Grisha ran for the wooded tunnel.

I called on every bit of the stag’s power and strength, the sea whip’s ferocity, everything Baghra had ever taught me and every trick I had ever learned. I pulled the light toward me and honed it into searing ribbons that cut luminous trails through the shadow army.

But there were just too many of them. What had it cost the Darkling to raise such a multitude? They surged forward, bodies shifting and whirling like a glittering cloud of beetles, arms stretched forward, clawed hands sharp talons bared. They pushed the Grisha back from the tunnel, black wings beating the air, the wide, twisted holes of their mouths yawning open.

Then the air came alive with the rattle of gunfire. There were soldiers pouring out of the woods to my left, shooting as they ran. The war cry that issued from their lips raised the hair on my arms. _Sankta Alina!_

They hurtled toward the nichevo’ya, drawing swords and sabers, slashing out at the monsters with terrifying ferocity. Some were dressed as farmers, some wore ragged First Army uniforms, but each of them bore identical tattoos: my sunburst, wrought in ink over the sides of their faces.

Only two were unmarked. Tolya and Tamar led the charge, eyes wild, blades flashing, roaring my name.


	26. Bring It Down

The sun soldiers plunged into the shadow horde, cutting and thrusting, pushing the nichevo’ya back as the riflemen fired again and again. But despite their ferocity, they were only human, flesh and steel pitted against living shadow. One by one, the nichevo’ya began to pick them off.

“Make for the chapel!” Tamar shouted.

The chapel? Did she plan to throw dusty hymnals at the Darkling?

“We’ll be trapped!” cried Sergei, running toward me.

“We’re already trapped,” Mal replied, slinging his rifle onto his back and grabbing my arm. “Let’s go!”

I didn’t know what to think, but we were out of options. He had to give my arm a yank to get me to uproot myself. Tolya and Tamar obviously hadn’t betrayed us, and they weren’t stupid - if they wanted us to go to the chapel, they had a plan.

“David!” I yelled. “The second one!”

He flung his last bomb toward the nichevo’ya. His aim was wild, but Zoya was there to help it along.

We dove into the woods, the sun soldiers bringing up the rear. The blast tore through the trees in a gust of white light. I cried at the soldiers to hold their fire and took us from sight under the cover of the explosion.

Lamps had been lit in the chapel and the door stood open. We burst inside, the echoes from our footfalls bouncing up over the pews and off the glazed blue dome.

“Where do we go?” Sergei cried in panic.

“Quiet,” I snapped. “No one move.”

Already we could hear the whirring and clicking hum from outside. They didn't have eyes, so I didn't know if this would work, and either way, they would eventually swarm the chapel. The Darkling would leave no place unchecked. The nichevo'ya filled the area where we disappeared, searching the ground, the trees. Sergei began whimpering, and Ruslan clamped a hand over his mouth, my eyes on the swarm outside. They moved like beasts, but swirled over and around one another, forming and reforming like a ball of snakes. One of them seemed to be examining the ground we'd just passed over. Then its head snapped up. If it had eyes, it would have been looking right at us.

“Tolya!” I cried. The giant slammed the chapel door shut, dropping a heavy wooden bolt into place, and I dropped our cover. The sun soldiers took up positions by the windows, rifles in hand.

Tamar hurdled over a pew and shot past me up the aisle. “Come on!”

I watched her in confusion. Just where were we supposed to go?

She tore past the altar and grasped one gilded wood corner of the triptych. I gaped as the water-damaged panel swung open, revealing the dark mouth of a passageway. This was how the sun soldiers had gotten onto the grounds. And how the Apparat had escaped from the Grand Palace.

“You knew!” I accused.

“Where does it go?” David asked with impressive calm.

“Does it matter?” Zoya shot back.

“It damn well might!” I yelled.

The building shook and rattled as a loud crack of thunder split the air. The chapel door blew to pieces. Tolya was thrown backward, and darkness flooded through.

The Darkling came borne by on a tide of wreathing shadow, held aloft by monsters who set his feet upon the chapel floor with infinite care when he took his first step toward us.

My wound throbbed, and I struggled not to slap a hand over it.

“Fire!” Tamar shouted.

Shots rang out. The nichevo’ya writhed and whirled around the Darkling, shifting and re-forming as the bullets struck their bodies, one taking the place of another in a seamless tide of shadow. He didn’t even break stride, his steps sure and his eyes on me.

Nichevo’ya were streaming through the chapel door. Tolya was already on his feet and rushing to my side with pistols drawn. Tamar and Mal flanked me, the few Grisha arrayed behind us. I raised my hands, calling the light, bracing for the onslaught.

“Stand down, Alina,” said the Darkling. His cool voice echoed through the chapel, cutting through the noise and chaos. “Stand down, and I will spare them.”

In answer, Tamar scraped one axe blade over the other, raising a horrible shriek of metal on metal. The sun soldiers lifted their rifles, and I heard the sound of Inferni flint being struck.

“Look around,” the Darkling said. “You cannot win. You can only watch them die. Come to me now, and I will do them no harm—not your zealot soldiers, not even the Grisha traitors. They will be free to go, and I will not hunt them.”

I took in the nightmare of the chapel. The nichevo’ya swarmed above us, crowding up against the inside of the dome, waiting only for a word to descend. They clustered around the Darkling in a dense cloud of bodies and wings. Through the windows I could see more, hovering in the twilight sky.

The sun soldiers’ faces were determined, but their ranks had been badly thinned. One of them had pimples on his chin. Beneath his tattoo, he didn’t look much older than twelve. They needed a miracle from their Saint, one I couldn’t perform.

Tolya cocked the triggers on his pistols.

“Hold,” I said. The word was quiet, but it rang out over the buzz of the Darkling's creatures.

“Alina,” Tamar whispered, “we can still get you out.”

 _”Hold,”_ I repeated.

The sun soldiers lowered their rifles. Tamar brought her axes to her hips but kept her grip tight.

“What are your terms?” I asked. _“Specifically.”_

Mal frowned. Tolya shook his head tightly. I didn’t care, and I didn't look away from the Darkling. I knew it might be a ploy, and maybe Tamar was right, and they could get me out. But they wouldn't be able to get more than one or two of the others out. It wasn't enough. I wouldn't do the stupid thing again.

“Give yourself up,” said the Darkling. “And they all go free. They can climb down that rabbit hole and disappear forever.”

“Free?” Sergei whispered.

“He’s lying,” said Mal. “It’s what he does.”

“I don’t need to lie,” said the Darkling. “Alina wants to come with me.”

Something in my chest crumpled like wrinkled paper under a weight. Part of me screamed that he was right.

“She doesn’t want any part of you,” Mal spat.

My mind spun. Seeing his face, the shadow of the face that had haunted me, hounded me, even helped and comforted me. . . I didn't know what I wanted.

“No?” the Darkling asked. His dark hair gleamed in the lamplight of the chapel. Summoning his shadow army had taken its toll. He was thinner, paler, but somehow the sharp angles of his face had only become more beautiful. “I warned you that your otkazat’sya could never understand you, Alina. I told you that he would only come to fear you and resent your power. Tell me I was wrong.”

I opened my mouth reflexively, but I didn’t speak. I couldn’t, not truthfully, and part of me wanted to hear what he had to say. I felt my eyebrows start to pinch together.

“Do you think I could have come to you again and again, if you had been less alone? You called to me, and I answered.”

I felt my face go slack, my eyes wide. I sucked in a breath. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. “You. . . that was you? You were there?”

“On the Fold. In the palace. The hours you wept. Last night.”

I shook my head in denial, so slight it barely moved. I flushed as I remembered his body on top of mine, the look in his eyes as he took me in after the bath, his arms around me while I shook with quiet tears, the times he had been the only person left for me to talk to, the only person in front of whom I could be myself. The only person who had encouraged me _not_ to run from what I was becoming.

Shame and anger washed through me, but with it them came overwhelming relief. I hadn’t imagined it. Not once. A choked sound, a sob of pure relief, escaped my throat and I put a hand to my mouth.

“That isn’t possible,” Mal bit out.

“You have no idea what I can make possible, tracker,” he said, his voice going cold but his eyes intense on me.

I shut my own eyes and tears rolled down my cheeks.

“Alina—” Mal began.

“I’ve seen what you truly are,” said the Darkling, “and I’ve never turned away. I never will. Can he say the same?”

“You don’t know anything about her,” Mal said fiercely.

“Come with me now, and it all stops—the fear, the uncertainty, the bloodshed. Let him go, Alina. Let them all go.”

_Let him go._

_He can’t change who he is any more than you can stop being Grisha._

_Some parts don't fit together, Alina. Sometimes it just takes time to see that it doesn't work._

“No,” I whispered, but my voice was beyond unsteady. It sounded like a pathetic denial more than an answer. And even as I shook my head, something in me cried out, _Yes._

The Darkling sighed and glanced back over his shoulder. “Bring her,” he said.

A figure shuffled forward, draped in a heavy shawl, hunched and slow-moving, as if every step brought pain. Baghra.

My stomach twisted sickly. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Why couldn’t she have gone with Nikolai? Unless Nikolai had never made it out.

The Darkling laid a hand on Baghra’s shoulder. She flinched. What had he done to her this time?

“You leave her alone,” I said angrily.

“Show them,” he said.

She unwound her shawl. I drew in a sharp breath. I heard someone behind me moan.

It was not Baghra. I didn’t know what it was. The bites were everywhere, raised black ridges of flesh, twisting lumps of tissue that could never be healed, not by Grisha hand or by any other, the unmistakable marks of the nichevo’ya. Then I saw the faded flame of her hair, the lovely amber hue of her one remaining eye.

“No,” I breathed. “Genya?”

We stood in terrible silence. I took a step toward her. Then David pushed past me down the altar steps. Genya cringed away from him, pulling up her shawl, and turned to hide her face.

David slowed. He hesitated. Gently, he reached out to touch her shoulder. I saw the hitched rise and fall of her back, and knew she was crying.

I covered my mouth as a sob tore free from my throat.

I’d seen a thousand horrors on this long day, but this was the one that broke me, Genya cringing away from David like a frightened animal. Luminous Genya, with her alabaster skin and graceful hands. Resilient Genya, who had endured countless indignities and insults, but who had always held her lovely chin high. Foolish Genya, who had tried to be my friend, who had dared to show me mercy.

David drew his arm around Genya’s shoulders and slowly led her back up the aisle. The Darkling didn’t stop them.

“I’ve waged the war you forced me to, Alina,” said the Darkling. “If you hadn’t run from me, the Second Army would still be intact. All those Grisha would still be alive. Your tracker would be safe and happy with his regiment. When will it be enough? When will you let me stop?”

“I didn’t force you to do that!” I yelled back angrily, my voice shaking. “Don’t pretend you don’t make your own choices!”

 _Don't pretend that any of this is my fault,_ I wanted to snap. But I couldn't make the words come.

 _You cannot be helped. Your only hope was to run._ Baghra was right. I’d been a fool to think I could fight him. I’d tried, and countless people had lost their lives for it. The harder I fought him, the more people paid the price.

“Just as you make yours. And here we are, yet again, more blood lining our path back to one another. You mourn the people killed in Novokribirsk,” the Darkling continued, “the people lost to the Fold. But what of the thousands that came before them, given over to endless wars? What of the others dying now on distant shores? Together, we can put an end to all of it.”

Reasonable. Logical. For once, I let the words in. An end to all of it. People had been killing each other since long before I was born. If nothing changed, they would continue doing so. But it could all be stopped. I had seen the way the Darkling cared for those under his command, Grisha and otkazat’sya alike. He was pitiless and unforgiving, ruthless and cold. But to the loyal, he was a hundred times better than the King was, than Vasily ever would have been. He took care of his people. He was no Nikolai, but maybe Nikolai wasn’t what the world truly needed.

He stood waiting, and I felt the realization sink in: _It’s over._

I should have felt beaten down by the thought, defeated, but instead it filled me with a curious lightness. Hadn’t some part of me known it would end this way all along?

The moment the Darkling had slipped his hand over my arm in the Grisha pavilion so long ago, he’d taken possession of me. I just hadn’t realized it.

Silence stretched on, the only sound the clicking and buzzing of the nichevo'ya overhead.

“All right,” I whispered. “I agree to your terms.”

“Alina, no!” Mal said furiously.

“You’ll let them go?” I asked. “All of them? And you won't go after them, you won't hunt them or hurt them, you won’t order anyone or anything after them?”

“We need the tracker,” said the Darkling. “For the firebird.”

 _“All of them,”_ I said.

The Darkling paused, then nodded once. I knew he thought he would find a way to claim Mal. Some loophole. He agreed now to get him what he wanted. Later, he would find a way to claim the rest. Let him believe he could. I would be there to stop him. I would never let it happen.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mal said through clenched teeth.

I turned to Tolya and Tamar. “Take him. Even if you have to carry him.”

“Alina—”

“We won’t go,” said Tamar. “We are sworn.”

“You are sworn to me!” I snapped, and light exploded around me. My hair fluttered in the heat. Cheap tricks, but good ones. Nikolai would have been proud. “You will take him,” I enunciated. “You will get him, yourselves, and everyone else here to safety, and you will find a way to collapse the tunnel behind you. You will run. You will live your lives. You _will not fail me_ in this.”

Tamar had tears in her eyes, but she and her brother bowed their heads.

Mal hooked my arm and pulled me toward them roughly. Light and heat still swirled around me. I couldn't wipe it away. I didn't want to. I never wanted to hold myself in again, even if it meant I burned everyone around me.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“I want this,” I said, and I had never felt more honest. _I need it._ Sacrifice or selfishness, it didn’t matter anymore.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don't have to,” I replied calmly, simply. “I can't hold myself in check anymore. I can't hide from what I am. From what I'm becoming. I don’t _want_ to. You were right, Mal. The girl you knew is gone. I can't bring her back, I can't pretend to be her any more, and the harder I try the more people will be hurt. But I can set you free.”

“You can’t. . . you can’t choose him.”

In a blaze, I surrounded us with glowing light, bright enough that no one would be able to see through it. They could still hear us, but we would get this small illusion of privacy, at least.

“There isn’t any choice to make. There is only what was meant to be. There is only accepting what has been true from the day he found me. From the day the examiners came.” I touched fingertips to my heart. _”This_ is what was meant to be.” It was true. I felt it in the collar, in the weight of the fetter. Whatever connection I had to the darkness swirling around me. For the first time in weeks, I felt strong.

He shook his head. “This is all wrong.” The look on his face almost undid me. It was lost, startled, like a little boy standing alone in the ruin of a burning village. He was the little boy I used to protect. “Please, Alina,” he said softly. “Please. This can’t be how it ends.”

I dulled the light and rested my hand on his cheek, hoping that there was still enough between us that he would understand. I stood on my toes and kissed the scar on his jaw.

“I have loved you all my life, Malyen Oretsev,” I whispered through my tears. “There is no end for us. I will carry you with me as long as I live. Our story will never end.” I stroked his cheek, memorizing every line of his beloved face. I looked into his eyes, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. Then I let the light fall. “I love you,” I whispered. “Please, be happy.”

Then I turned from him and walked up the aisle. “Take him,” I ordered in a hard, flat voice.

“No!” Mal shouted, desperate. _“No!”_ I heard scuffling behind me and knew Tolya had taken hold of him. _“Alina!”_ His voice was raw white wood, torn from the heart of a tree. I closed my eyes, but I did not turn.

My steps were sure. Mal would have a life. He’d find his purpose again. I had to seek mine. Nikolai had promised me a chance to save Ravka, to make amends for the things I’d done. He’d tried, but it was the Darkling’s gift to give.

He stood waiting, his shadow guard hovering and shifting around him. He was beautiful. He was terrible.

I was afraid, but beneath the fear, I was eager. Hungry.

“We are alike,” he said as I neared him, “as no one else is, as no one else will ever be.”

The truth of it rang through me. Like calls to like.

He held out his hand, and I stepped into his arms.

I moved my hand across his cheek to cup the back of his neck, feeling the silken brush of his hair on my fingertips. I knew Mal was watching. I needed him to turn away. I needed them to leave.

“I told you to go,” I said loudly, my eyes tracing the planes and angles of the Darkling’s face. I let light flare up behind me in a wall, too blinding to look at. I let heat press into the back of the room, rising until it would force them to retreat, to seek the safety of the tunnel.

“Thank you,” I whispered as he leaned toward me, using me to shield the worst of the brightness. _Thank you for your madness. For your determination. For your truth. For your inability to surrender and even,_ part of me felt, _for your cruelty._

“Tell me, Alina. Say it. Where does your loyalty lie?”

I tilted my face up to the Darkling’s. My eyes roved over delicate scars, crisp, pale gray.

“With you,” I answered. “I have no more room for lies. No more strength to hold them up. I, and my power, are yours.”

I saw the elation and triumph in his eyes as he lowered his mouth to mine. Our lips met, and the connection between us flared wide. This was not the way he’d touched me in my visions, when he’d come to me as shadow. This was real, and powerful, and I could drown in it.

Power flowed through me—the power of the stag, its strong heart beating in both our bodies, the life he’d taken, the life I’d tried to save. But I also felt the Darkling’s power, the power of the Black Heretic, the power of the Fold.

Like calls to like.

I’d sensed it when the Hummingbird entered the Unsea, but I’d been too afraid to embrace it, to even look at it. This time, I didn’t fight. I let go of my fear, my guilt, my shame. There was darkness inside me. He had put it there, and I would no longer deny it. The black of the unsea was my home. The volcra, the nichevo’ya, they were my monsters, all of them. And he was my monster, too.

“I am yours,” I repeated. His arms tightened around me. “And you,” I whispered against his lips, “are mine.” A puff of breath fanned over my face, hungry.

His hands on me tightened until they were almost painful. Every finger curled at my waist was like its own searing fire, sharp and branding.

 _Mine._ The word reverberated through me, through both of us.

The shadow soldiers shifted and whirred.

Suddenly, I understood. But somehow, no anger followed the understanding. It was knowledge, pure.

I remembered the way it had felt in that snowy glade, when the Darkling had placed the collar around my neck and seized control of my power. I remembered the way it felt when I reached into him through our connection, when I could feel his emotions. I remembered when I had felt them again even though he had been nothing but a shadow. I reached across the connection between us.

He reared back. “What are you doing?” 

I stroked his face, pressed a kiss to his lips. “I wondered why you didn't kill the sea whip. Now I know.” He hadn't wanted to form that second connection. “You were afraid,” I whispered. Afraid of forming that second connection. “Would you like to know how it feels? To have what's yours taken away? To be taken away from yourself?”

_Mine._

I forced my way across the bond forged by Morozova’s collar and grabbed hold of the Darkling’s power. 

Shadow spilled from him, black ink from his palms, billowing and skittering, blooming into the shape of a nichevo’ya, forming hands, head, claws, wings. The first of my abominations.

The Darkling tried to pull away from me, but I clutched him tighter, calling his power with a moan, calling the darkness as he had once used the collar to summon my light.

Another creature burst forth, and then another. The Darkling cried out as it was wrenched from him. I felt it too, felt my heart constrict as each shadow soldier tore a little bit of me away, exacting the price of its creation.

“Stop,” the Darkling rasped.

“No,” I whispered, placing gentle, trailing kisses to his neck. “No.”

The nichevo’ya whirred nervously around us, clicking and humming, faster and faster. One after another, I pulled my dark soldiers into being, and my army rose up around us.

The Darkling moaned, and so did I. We fell against each other, but still I did not relent.

“You’ll kill us both!” he cried.

“Yes,” I sighed. “I will.”

The Darkling’s legs buckled, and we collapsed to our knees.

This was not the Small Science. This was magic, something ancient, the making at the heart of the world. It was terrifying, limitless. No wonder the Darkling hungered for more. It was a thing that could never be sated.

The darkness buzzed and clattered, a thousand locusts, beetles, hungry flies, clicking their legs, beating their wings. The nichevo’ya wavered and re-formed, whirring in a frenzy, driven on by his rage and my exultation.

Another monster. Another. Blood was pouring from the Darkling’s nose. The room seemed to rock, and I realized I was convulsing. I was dying, bit by bit, with every monster that wrenched itself free.

Just a little longer, I thought. Just a few more. Just enough so I know that I’ve sent us both to the next world.

“Alina!” I heard Mal calling as if from a great distance. He was tugging at me, pulling me away.

“No,” I said. “Let me end this.” Light flared up, bright and hot. “Leave, Mal. Leave me with him.”

Mal seized my wrist, and a shock passed through me, tearing the breath from my lungs. Through the haze of blood and shadow, I glimpsed something beautiful, as if through a golden door. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even burn him to make him let go.

I clutched tighter to the Darkling, but Mal wrenched me away. I called out to my children in one final exhortation: _Bring it down._

The Darkling slumped to the ground. I wanted to go to him.

I wanted to end with him. The monsters rose in a whirling black column around him, then crashed against the walls of the chapel, shaking the little building to its very foundations.

Mal had me in his arms and was running up the aisle. The nichevo’ya were hurling themselves against the chapel walls. Slabs of plaster crashed to the floor. The blue dome swayed as its supports began to give way.

Mal leapt past the altar and plunged into the passage. I could only hang, limp in his arms, eyes unseeing. The smell of wet earth and mold filled my nostrils, mingling with the sweet incense of the chapel. He ran, racing against the disaster I’d unleashed.

A boom sounded from somewhere far behind us as the chapel collapsed. The impact roared through the passageway. A cloud of dirt and debris struck us with the force of an oncoming wave. Mal flew forward. I tumbled from his arms, and the world came down around us.

 

* * * * *

 

The first thing I heard was the low rumble of Tolya’s voice. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t shout. All I knew was pain and the relentless weight of the earth. Later I would find out that they’d labored over me for hours, breathing air back into my lungs, beating my heart for me, staunching the flow of blood, trying to mend the worst breaks in my bones.

I drifted in and out of consciousness. My mouth felt dry and swollen shut. I was pretty sure I’d bitten my tongue. I heard Tamar giving orders.

“Bring the rest of the tunnel down. We need to get as far from here as we possibly can.”

I tried to rise, to go back, but I couldn't move.

Mal.

Was he here? Buried beneath the rubble? I would not let them leave him. I forced my lips to form his name.

“No.” Could they even hear me? My voice sounded muffled and wrong to my ears. “Mal?”

“She’s hurting,” Tamar said. “Should we put her under?

“I don’t want to risk her heart stopping again,” replied Tolya.

“You're horrible at following orders,” I tried to say. I don't know if they even sounded like words.

“Mal,” I repeated.

“Leave the passage to the convent open,” Tamar said to someone. “Hopefully, he’ll think we went out there.”

The convent. Sankta Lizabeta. The gardens next to the Gritzki mansion. I couldn’t order my thoughts. I tried to speak Mal’s name again, but I couldn’t make my mouth work. The pain was crowding in on me. What if I’d lost him? If I’d had the strength, I would have screamed. I would have railed. I would have brought this whole place down around us. Instead, I sank into darkness.

 

* * * * *

 

When I came to, the world was swaying beneath me. I remembered waking aboard the whaler, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I might be on a ship. I opened my eyes, saw earth and rock high above me. We were moving through a massive cavern. I was on my back on some kind of litter, borne between the shoulders of two men.

It was a struggle to stay conscious. I’d spent short periods in my life, when I couldn't or wouldn't use my powers, feeling sick and weak in a way I could never describe, but I’d never known fatigue like this. I was a husk, hollowed out, scraped clean. If any breeze could have reached us so far below the earth, I would have blown away like soot.

Though every bone and muscle in my body shrieked in protest, I managed to turn my head.

Mal was there, lying on another litter, carried along just a few feet beside me. He was watching me, as if he’d been waiting for me to wake. He reached out.

I found some reservoir of strength and stretched my hand over the litter’s edge. When our fingers met, I heard a sob and realized I was crying. I wept with relief that I would not have to live with the burden of his death. But lodged in my gratitude, I felt a bright thorn of resentment. I wept with rage that I would have to live at all.

 

* * * * *

 

We traveled for miles, through passages so tight that they had to lower my litter to the ground and slide me along the rock, through tunnels high and wide enough for ten hay carts. I don’t know how long we went on that way. There were no nights and or days belowground.

Mal recovered before I did and limped along beside the litter. He’d been injured when the tunnel collapsed, but the Grisha had restored him. What I had endured, what I had embraced, they had no power to heal.

At some point, we stopped at a cave dripping with rows of stalactites. I’d heard one of my carriers call it the Worm’s Mouth. When they set me down, Mal was there. Mal was always there, and with his help, I managed to get into a sitting position, propped against the cave wall. Even that effort left me dizzy, and when he dabbed his sleeve to my nose, I saw that I was bleeding.

“How bad is it?” I asked. My voice was a dried husk.

“You’ve looked better,” he admitted. “The pilgrims mentioned something called the White Cathedral. I think that’s where we’re headed.”

“They’re taking me to the Apparat.”

He glanced around the cavern. “This is how he escaped the Grand Palace after the coup. How he managed to evade capture for so long.”

“It’s also how he appeared and disappeared at the fortune-telling party. The mansion was next to the Convent of Sankta Lizabeta, remember? Tamar led me straight to him, and then she let him get away.” I heard the bitterness and anger in my weak voice.

Slowly, my addled mind had pieced it all together. Only Tolya and Tamar had known about the party, and they’d arranged for the Apparat to meet me. They’d already been among the pilgrims that morning when I’d nearly started the riot, there to watch the sunrise with the faithful. That was how they’d gotten to me so quickly. And Tamar had vanished from the Eagle’s Nest as soon as she’d begun to suspect danger. I knew that the twins and their sun soldiers were the only reason any of the Grisha had survived, but their lies still stung.

“How are the others?”

Mal looked over to where the ragged group of Grisha huddled in the shadows.

“They know about the fetter,” he said. “They’re frightened.”

“And the. . .?” _The third amplifier, the firebird,_ I didn't have to say. He saw it in my face.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ll tell them soon enough.”

“Sergei isn’t doing well,” Mal continued. “I think he’s still in shock. The rest seem to be holding up.”

“Genya?”

“She and David stay behind the group. She can’t move very quickly.” He paused. “The pilgrims call her Razrusha’ya.”

The Ruined.

“I need to see Tolya and Tamar.”

“You need to rest.”

“No,” I said. “Now.”

He stood, but hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was raw. “You should have told me what you intended to do.”

I looked away. The distance between us felt even deeper than it had before. _I tried to free you, Mal. From the Darkling. From me._

“I didn't intend to do it. But you should have let me finish,” I said. “And you should have let me die.”

It was so long before he spoke, I thought he had walked silently away. When he did speak, it was uneasy and halting. There was anger and confusion and sickness in his voice.

“. . .I had a lot of time to think while you were unconscious. I. . .” he sighed, heavy and tired. “Something in you broke these last months. I saw it, I just didn’t know what to do. But you needed me, and I wasn’t there.”

I wanted to agree. I wanted to shout and hit him and cry. I didn’t move.

“I broke, too,” he went on. “And I’m still. . . I have a lot of things to work out. It’s probably going to take a while. But the way you went to him in the chapel, the things you said. I did that to you. I just want you to know that I know that, and that I’m sorry. I’m going to figure this out. And even if you. . . even if we never. . . .” He trailed off, the seemed to shake himself. “I’m never going to leave you alone like that again. I promise.”

When I heard his footsteps fade, I let my chin droop. I could hear my breath coming in shallow pants. When I worked up the strength to lift my eyes, Tolya and Tamar were kneeling before me, their heads bowed.

“Look at me,” I rasped.

They obeyed. Tolya’s sleeves were rolled up, and I saw that his massive forearms were emblazoned with suns.

“Why not just tell me?”

“You never would have let us stay so close,” replied Tamar.

That was true. Even now I wasn’t sure what to make of them.

“If you believe I’m a Saint, why not let me die in the chapel? What if that was meant to be my martyrdom?”

“Then you would have died,” said Tolya without hesitation. “We wouldn’t have found you in the rubble in time or been able to revive you.”

“You found me because you disobeyed my order,” I said angrily. “You let him go back for me. After you gave me your vow.”

“He broke away,” said Tamar.

I stared at them flatly. The day Mal could break Tolya’s hold was indeed a day of miracles.

Tolya hung his head and heaved his huge shoulders. “Forgive me,” he said. “I couldn’t be the one to keep him from you.”

I sighed. Some sworn warrior.

“Do you serve me?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“Do you serve the priest?”

“We serve _you,”_ said Tolya, his voice a fierce rumble.

“We’ll see,” I murmured, and waved them away. They rose to go, but I called them back. “Wait. Make sure Genya and the others are care of. Watch out for Sergei and Mal. But most importantly, some of the pilgrims have taken to calling Genya Razrusha’ya. Warn them once, make certain they understand. If they speak that word again, take out your blades and let them know what it means to be ruined.”

They didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. They made their bows and were gone.

 

* * * * *

 

The White Cathedral was a cavern of alabaster quartz, so vast it might have held a city in its glowing ivory depths. Its walls were damp and bloomed with mushrooms, salt lilies, toadstools shaped like stars. It was buried deep beneath Ravka, somewhere north of the capital.

I wanted to meet the priest standing, so I held tight to Mal’s arm as we were brought before him, trying to hide the effort it took just to stay upright and the way my body shook.

“Sankta Alina,” the Apparat said, “you are come to us at last.”

Then he fell to his knees in his tattered brown robes. He kissed my hand, my hem. I gazed at him with cold wariness. He called out to the faithful, thousands of them gathered in the belly of the cavern. When he spoke, the very air seemed to tremble. “We will rise to make a new Ravka,” he roared. “A country free from tyrants and kings! We will spill from the earth and drive the shadows back in a tide of righteousness!”

Below us, the pilgrims chanted. _Sankta Alina._

It was a lovely dream. It was a foolish dream.

There were rooms carved into the rock, chambers that glowed ivory and glittered with thin veins of silver. Mal helped me to my quarters, made me eat a few bites of sweet pea porridge, and brought me a pitcher of fresh water to fill the basin. A mirror had been set directly into the stone, and when I glimpsed myself, I let out a little cry. The heavy pitcher shattered on the floor. My skin was pale, stretched tight over jutting bones. My eyes were bruised hollows. My hair had gone completely white, a fall of brittle snow.

I touched my fingertips to the glass. Mal’s gaze met mine in the reflection.

“I should have warned you,” he said.

“I look like a monster.”

“More like a khitka.”

“Woodsprites eat children.”

“Only when they’re hungry,” he said.

I tried to smile, to hold tight to this glimmer of warmth between us. But I noticed how far from me he stood, arms at his back, like a guard at attention. He mistook the sheen of tears in my eyes.

“It will get better,” he said. “Once you use your power.”

I turned my eyes away from him, shook my head. “Of course,” I replied, turning away from the mirror, feeling exhaustion and pain settle into my bones.

I hesitated, then cast a meaningful glance at the men the Apparat had stationed at the door to the chamber. I didn’t have the energy to tell them to get out. Mal stepped closer. I wanted to press my cheek to his chest, feel his arms around me, listen to the steady, human beat of his heart.

_Let him go._

_He doesn't belong here._

_Maybe what happened on the Fold was meant to be the end of us._

I didn’t.

Instead, I spoke low, barely moving my lips. “I’ve tried,” I whispered. “I can’t call it.”

He frowned. “You can’t summon?” he asked hesitantly. Was there fear in his voice? Concern? Hope? I couldn’t tell. All I could sense in him was caution.

“Maybe I'm too weak. Maybe we're too far belowground. Maybe. . . .” Maybe this was the price of yet another failure. “I don’t know.”

I watched his face, remembering the argument we’d had in the birchwood grove, when he’d asked if I would give up being Grisha. “No,” I’d said. I wouldn’t let give up my power even if I could.

Hopelessness crowded in on me, dense and black, heavy like the press of soil. I didn’t want to say the words, didn’t want to give voice to the fear I’d carried with me through the long, dark miles beneath the earth, but I forced myself to speak it. “It won't come, Mal. My power is gone.”


	27. After

Again, the girl dreamed of ships, but this time, they flew. They had white wings made of canvas, and a clever-eyed fox stood behind the wheel. Sometimes the fox became a prince who kissed her lips and offered her a jeweled crown. Sometimes he was a red hellhound, foam on his muzzle, snapping at her heels as she ran.

Every so often, she dreamed of the firebird. It caught her up in wings of flame and held her as she burned.

Long before word came, she knew the Darkling had survived and that she had failed once more. He had been rescued by his Grisha and now ruled Ravka from a throne wreathed in shadows, surrounded by his monstrous horde. Whether he’d been weakened by what she’d done in the chapel, she didn’t know. He was ancient, and power was as familiar to him as it had been alien to her.

His oprichniki guards marched into monasteries and churches, tore up tiles and dug down through floors, seeking the Sun Summoner. Rewards were offered, threats were made, and once again the girl was hunted.

The priest swore that she was safe in the sprawling web of passages that crisscrossed Ravka like a secret map. There were those who claimed the tunnels had been made by armies of the faithful, that it had taken hundreds of years with picks and axes to carve them. Others said they were the work of a monster, a great worm who swallowed soil, rock, root, and gravel, who hollowed out the underground roads that led to the old holy places, where half-remembered prayers were still said. The girl only knew that no place would keep them safe for long.

She looked into the faces of her followers: old men, young women, children, soldiers, farmers, convicts. All she saw were corpses, more bodies for the Darkling to lay at her feet.

The Apparat wept, shouting his gratitude that the Sun Saint still lived, that she had once again been spared, reborn. In his wild black gaze, the girl saw a different truth: A dead martyr was less trouble than a living Saint.

The prayers of the faithful rose around the boy and the girl, echoing and multiplying beneath the earth, bouncing off the soaring stone walls of the White Cathedral. The Apparat said it was a holy place, their haven, their sanctuary, their home.

The boy shook his head. He knew a cell when he saw one.

He was wrong, of course. The girl could tell from the way the Apparat watched her struggle to her feet. She heard it in each fragile thump of her heart. This place was no prison. It was a tomb.

But the girl had spent long years making herself invisible, seen but unseen. She’d already had a ghost’s life, hidden from the world and from herself. Better than anyone, she knew the power of things long buried.

At night, she heard the boy pacing outside her room, keeping watch with the golden-eyed twins. She lay quiet in her bed, counting her breaths, stretching toward the surface, seeking the light. She thought of the broken skiff, of Novokribirsk, of red names crowding a crooked church wall. She remembered little human heaps slumped beneath the golden dome; Marie’s butchered body; Fedyor, who had once saved her life. She heard the pilgrims’ songs and exhortations. She thought of the volcra and of Genya huddled in the dark.

The girl touched the collar at her neck, the fetter at her wrist. So many men had tried to make her a queen. Now she understood that she was meant for something more.

The Darkling had told her he was destined to rule. He had claimed his throne, and a part of her too. He was welcome to it. The Darkling had also told her that she was meant to have power never before known. For the living and the dead, she would make herself a reckoning.

She would rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Beta isn't done, because I'm an impatient hag and seven months was way too long for this to go and GOD BUT I WANT IT TO BE OVER.
> 
> The next "book" should go faster, at least while we're getting through edits on Bardugo's work. The poor Beta has had nothing but computer problems and hand injuries since she started. xD <3


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